ROPE 


' 


ROPE 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


ROPE 


BY 

HOL WORTHY  HALL 

Author  of  "THE  MAN  NOBODY  KNEW,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPTBIGHT,  1922, 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN    U.    8.    A. 


VAIL-BALLOU     COMPANY 
BINOHAMTON  AND  HEW  YORK 


ROPE 


2130458 


ROPE 


CHAPTER  I 

AS  Henry  came  blithely  into  the  house  with 
a  heavy  suit-case  in  one  hand  and  a 
cumbersome  kit-bag  in  the  other,  his  Aunt 
Mirabelle  marched  out  like  a  grenadier  from 
the  living-room,  and  posted  herself  in  the  hall- 
way to  watch  him  approach.  There  was  this 
much  to  say  for  Aunt  Mirabelle:  she  was  at 
least  consistent,  and  for  twenty  years  she  had 
worn  the  same  expression  whenever  she  looked 
at  him.  During  that  period  the  rest  of  the 
world  and  Henry  had  altered,  developed,  ad- 
vanced— but  not  Aunt  Mirabelle.  She  had 
changed  neither  the  style  of  her  clothes  nor  the 
nature  of  her  convictions ;  she  had  disapproved 
of  Henry  when  he  was  six,  and  therefore,  she 
disapproved  of  him  today.  To  let  him  know 
it,  she  regarded  him  precisely  as  though  he 


2  EOPE 

were  still  six,  and  had  forgotten  to  wash  his 
face. 

"I  suppose,"  remarked  Aunt  Mirabelle,  in 
her  most  abrasive  voice,  "I  suppose  you're 
waiting  for  me  to  say  I  hope  you  had  a  good 
time.  Well,  I'm  not  a-going  to  say  it,  because 
it  wouldn't  be  true,  and  I  wouldn't  want  to  have 
it  sitting  on  my  conscience.  Of  course,  some 
people  haven't  got  much  of  any  conscience  for 
anything  to  sit  on,  anyway.  If  they  did,  tney'd 
be  earnest,  useful  citizens.  If  they  did,  then 
once  in  a  while  they'd  think  about  something 
else  besides  loud  ties  and  silk  socks  and  golf. 
And  they  wouldn't  be  gallivanting  off  on  house- 
parties  for  a  week  at  a  time,  either;  they'd  be 
tending  to  their  business — if  they  had  any. 
And  if  they  hqj^t,  they  ought  to." 

Henry  put  down  the  bag  and  the  suit-case, 
removed  his  straw  hat,  and  grinned,  with  a 
fair  imitation  of  cheerfulness.  He  had  never 

learned   how  to   handle   Aunt   Mirabelle,   and 

• 

small  wonder;  for  if  he  listened  in  silence,  he 
was  called  sulky;  if  he  disputed  her,  he  was 
called  flippant;  if  he  agreed  with  her,  she  ac- 
cused him  of  fraud ;  and  if  he  obeyed  his  natural 


EOPE  3 

instincts,  and  treated  her  with  tolerant  good- 
humour,  she  usually  went  on  a  conversation 
strike,  and  never  weakened  until  after  the 
twelfth  apology.  Whatever  he  did  was  wrong, 
so  that  purely  on  speculation,  he  grinned,  and 
said  what  came  to  his  tongue. 

"Maybe  so,"  said  Henry,  "maybe  so,  but 
conscience  is  a  plant  of  slow  growth,"  and  im- 
mediately after  he  had  said  this,  he  wished  that 
he  had  chosen  a  different  epigram — something 
which  wasn't  so  liable  to  come  back  at  him, 
later,  like  a  boomerang. 

"Humph!"  said  Aunt  Mirabelle.  "It  is,  is 
it?  Well,  if  I  was  in  your  place,  I'd  be  impa- 
tient for  it  to  grow  faster." 

Henry  shook  his  head.    "No,  I  don't  believe 

you  would.     I've  read  som^here  that  impa- 

^^ 

tience  dries  the  blood  more  than  age  or  sor- 
row." He  assumed  an  air  of  critical  satisfac- 
tion. "The  bird  that  v.rote  that  had  pretty 
good  technique,  don't  you  think?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "All  right, 
Henry.  Be  pert.  But  I  know  what  made  you 
so  almighty  anxious  to  sneak  off  on  this  house- 
party;  and  I  know  whose  account  it  was  you 


4  EOPE 

went  on,  too,  and  I  don 't  see  for  the  life  of  me 
why  your  uncle  hasn't  put  his  foot  down." 
She  sighed,  as  though  in  deep  mourning.  "I 
did  hope  you'd  grow  up  different  from  these 
other  boys,  Henry,  but  you're  all  of  you  just 
alike.  When  you  get  old  enough,  do  you  pick 
out  some  pure,  innocent,  sensible,  young  woman 
that's  been  trained  the  way  girls  were  trained 
in  my  day?  No.  You  go  and  make  fools  of 
yourselves  over  these  short-skirted  little  hus- 
sies all  powdered  up  like  a  box  of  marshmal- 
lows.  And  as  long  as  they're  spry  enough  and 
immodest  enough  to  do  all  these  new  bunny 
dances  and  what  not,  you  think  that's  a  sure 
sign  they'll  make  good  wives  and  mothers. 
Humph.  Makes  me  sick/' 

In  spite  of  himself,  Henry  lost  his  artificial 
grin,  and  began  to  turn  dull  red.  "I  wouldn't 
go  quite  so  far  as  to  say  that."  ^ 

"Well,"  retorted  Aunt  Mirabelle,  "I  didn't 
hardly  expect  you  would.  But  you'll  go  far 
enough  to  see  one  of  'em,  I  notice.  .  .  .  Well, 
your  uncle's  home  this  afternoon;  long's  he's 
paying  your  bills,  you  might  have  the  grace  to 
go  in  and  say  howdy-you-do  to  him."  She 


EOPE  5 

marched  upstairs,  and  Henry,  revolving  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  gazed  after  her  until  she  was  out  of 
sight.  He  stood,  irresolute,  until  the  echo  of 
her  common-sense  shoes  died  into  silence;  and 
as  he  lingered,  he  was  struck  for  the  ten 
thousandth  time  by  the  amazing  mystery  of  the 
human  family. 

First,  there  was  his  mother,  a  small  and  ex- 
quisite woman  with  music  in  her  heart  and  in 
the  tips  of  her  fingers ;  his  memory  of  her  was 
dim,  but  he  knew  that  she  had  been  the  maddest 
and  the  merriest  of  all  possible  mothers — a 
creature  of  joy  and  sunshine  and  the  sheer 
happiness  of  existence.  And  then  her  sister 
Mirabelle,  who  found  life  such  a  serious  condi- 
tion to  be  in,  and  loved  nothing  about  it,  save 
the  task  of  reforming  it  for  other  people 
whether  the  other  people  liked  it  or  not.  And 
finally,  her  brother  John,  bald,  fat,  and  good- 
natured;  a  man  whose  personal  interests  were 
bounded  by  his  own  physical  comfort,  and  by 
his  desire  to  see  everyone  else  equally  comfort- 
able. Whenever  Henry  thought  of  this  trio,  he 
reflected  that  his  grandparents  must  have  been 
very  versatile. 


6  ROPE 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  glanced  up  the 
stairway,  as  though  the  spirit  of  his  Aunt 
Mirabelle  were  still  haunting  him;  then,  with  a 
depressing  recollection  of  what  she  had  said 
about  his  conscience,  and  with  hot  resentment 
at  what  she  said  about  his  taste,  he  walked 
slowly  into  the  library. 

His  uncle  John  Starkweather,  who  had  been 
writing  at  a  big  desk  between  the  windows, 
sprang  up  to  shake  hands  with  him.  "  Hello, 
boy!  Thought  Bob  Standish  must  have  kid- 
napped you.  Have  a  good  party  f  " 

' '  Fine,  thanks, ' '  said  Henry,  but  his  tone  was 
so  subdued  and  joyless  that  his  uncle  stared  at 
him  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  over  to  close 
the  door.  Standing  with  his  back  to  it,  Mr. 
Starkweather  smiled  reminiscently  and  a  trifle 
ruefully,  and  began  to  peel  the  band  from  a 
cigar.  " What's  the  matter?  Mirabelle  say 
anything  to  you?" 

' '  Why — nothing  special. ' y 

His  uncle  hesitated.  "In  a  good  many 
ways/'  he  said,  lowering  his  voice,  "Mirabelle 
puts  me  in  mind  of  my  father.  When  he  was 
a  boy,  out  in  the  country,  he'd  had  to  smash  the 


EOPE  7 

ice  in  the  water-pitcher  every  mornin',  and  he 
was  proud  of  it — thought  a  boy  that  hadn't 
earned  some  of  his  godliness  with  an  ice-pick 
was  a  dude.  Thought  what  was  good  enough 
for  his  father  was  good  enough  for  him,  and 
sometimes  it  was  too  good.  Didn't  believe  in 
modern  improvements  like  telephones  and 
easy  chairs  and  three-tined  forks ;  didn't  believe 
in  labour-savin'  devices  because  labour  wasn't 
meant  to  be  saved.  Bible  says  for  us  to  work 
six  days  a  week,  and  if  he  ever  had  any  spare 
time  before  Sat 'day  night,  he  figured  he  must 
have  forgot  somethin'.  Business- — well,  he 
called  advertisin'  a  rich  man's  luxury,  and 
said  an  audit  was  an  insult  to  his  partners. 
Said  he'd  welcome  a  sheriff  sooner 'n  he  would 
an  expert  accountant — and  in  the  long  run, 
that's  exactly  what  he  did.  Involuntary  bank- 
ruptcy— found  his  sanctimonious  old  cashier  M 
been  sanctimoniously  lootin'  the  till  for 
eighteen  years."  He  paused,  and  eyed  his 
cigar.  "Well,  Mirabelle's  cut  more  or  less  off 
the  same  piece.  Lord,  I  wish  she  could  go 
through  some  kind  of  bankruptcy,  if  't  would 
shake  her  up  like  it  did  father." 


8  EOPE 

"It — shook  him  up,  did  it?"  inquired  Henry, 
fidgetting. 

"Well,"  said  his  uncle,  "after  the  crash,  I 
don't  recollect  he  ever  mentioned  the  good  old 
times  again  except  once ;  and  that  was  to  praise 
the  good  old  habit  of  takin'  defaulters  and 
boilin '  'em  in  oil.  No,  sir,  he  wouldn  't  so  much 
as  add  two  and  two  together  without  an  addin' 
machine,  and  he  used  to  make  an  inventory  of 
his  shirts  and  winter  flannels  pretty  near  every 
week.  And  Mirabelle's  the  same  way;  she's 
still  tryin'  to  live  under  the  1874  rules."  He 
came  back  to  his  desk,  and  sat  down  thought- 
fully. "Well,  she's  been  talkin'  to  me  ever 
since  you  went  off  on  this  party  and  as  far's 
most  of  it's  concerned,  I'm  not  on  her  side,  and 
I'm  not  on  your  side;  I'm  sort  of  betwixt  and 
between."  He  looked  sidewise  at  Henry,  and 
discovered  that  Henry  was  peering  off  into 
space,  and  smiling  as  though  he  saw  a  vision  in 
the  clouds.  "Just  as  man  to  man,  just  for  the 
information ;  suppose  you  passed  up  everything 
I've  said  to  you,  and  went  and  got  married  one 
of  these  days — did  you  expect  I'd  go  on  sup- 
portin'  you?" 


EOPE  9 

Henry  came  down  to  earth,  and  his  expres- 
sion showed  that  he  had  landed  heavily. 
1 1  Why— what  was  that  I ' ' 

His  uncle  repeated  it,  with  a  postscript. 
*  *  Oh,  I  Ve  always  told  you  you  could  have  any- 
thing you  wanted  within  reason  that  I  could  pay 
for.  But  from  what  I  been  told" — his  eyes 
twinkled — "wives  ain't  always  reasonable. 
And  it  does  seem  to  me  that  when  a  young  man 
gets  to  be  twenty  five  or  six,  and  never  did  a 
lick  of  work  in  his  life,  and  loafs  around  clubs 
and  plays  polo  just  because  he's  got  a  rich 
uncle,  why,  it's  a  sort  of  a  reflection  on  both  of 
'em.  Seem  so  to  you?" 

Henry  glanced  up  nervously  and  down  again. 
* '  To  tell  the  truth,  I  hadn  't  thought  much  about 
it." 

"Say,"  said  his  uncle,  confidentially. 
"Neither  had  I.  Not  'till  Mirabelle  told  me 
you  went  off  on  this  party  because  Anna  Bar- 
klay  was  goin'  to  be  there.  .  .  .  Now  I  had 
pretty  hard  sleddin'  when  I  was  your  age;  I've 
kind  of  liked  to  see  you  enjoy  yourself.  But 
Mirabelle — Now  I  said  before,  I  ain't  on  her 
side,  and  I  ain't  on  your  side;  I  had  the  thing 


10  ROPE 

out  with  you  once  or  twice  -already,  and  I  guess 
you  know  what  my  angles  are.  Only  if  Mira- 
belle's  got  any  grounds,  maybe  I  ought  to  say 
it  over  again.  .  .  .  You  been  out  of  college  four 
years  now,  and  you  tried  the  automobile 
business  for  two  months  and  the  bond  business 
for  two-  weeks  and  the  real-estate  business  for 
two  minutes,  and  there  you  quit.  You  spent 
five,  six  thousand  a  year  and  that  was  all  right, 
but  I  admit  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your 
gettin'  married  on  no  thin'  but  prospects, 
specially  when  I'm  all  the  prospects  there  is. 
Sound  fair  to  you?" 

Henry  nodded,  with  much  repression, 
"You  couldn't  be  unfair  if  you  tried,  Uncle 
John." 

"Well,  you  was  always  open  to  reason,  even 
when  you  was  in  kindergarten.  .  .  .  Now,  in 
some  ways  I  don't  approve  of  you  any  more'n 
Mirabelle  does,  but  she  wants  me  to  go  too 
blamed  far.  She  wants  me  to  turn  you  loose 
the  way  my  father  did  me.  She  wants  me  to 
say  if  you  should  ever  marry  without  my  con- 
sent I'll  cut  you  out  of  my  will.  But  that's  old 
stuff.  That's  cold  turkey.  Mirabelle  don't 


E  0  P  E  11 

know  times  have  changed — she's  so  busy  with 
that  cussed  Reform  League  of  hers,  she  don't 
have  time  to  reform  any  of  her  own  slants 
about  things."  He  rolled  his  cigar  under  his 
tongue. 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  compromise.  Before  you 
get  involved  too  deep,  I  want  you  to  know 
what 's  in  my  mind.  I  don 't  believe  it 's  the  best 
thing  for  either  of  us  for  me  to  go  on  bein'  a 
kind  of  an  evergreen  money-bush.  And  a  man 
that's  earnin'  his  own  livin'  don't  have  to  ask 
odds  of  anybody.  Don't  you  think  you  better 
bundle  up  your  courage  and  get  to  work, 
Henry  I" 

Henry  was  twiddling  his  watch-chain.  "It 
hasn't  been  a  matter  of  courage,  exactly — " 

"Oh,  I  know  that.  I  don't  believe  you're 
scared  of  work ;  you  're  only  sort  of  shy  about  it. 
I  never  saw  you  really  afraid  of  more'n  three 
things — bein'  a  spoil-sport,  or  out  of  style,  or 
havin*  -a  waiter  think  you're  stingy.  No,  you 
ain't  afraid  of  work,  but  you  never  been 
properly  introduced,  so  you're  kind  of  stand- 
offish about  it.  I've  always  kind  of  hoped 
you'd  take  a  tip  from  Bob  Standish — there's 


12  ROPE 

one  of  your  own  breed  that  knows  where  the 
durable  satisfactions  of  life  are.  Just  as  good 
family 's  yours.;  just  as  much  money;  just  as 
fond  of  games; — and  workin'  like  a  prize  pup 
in  my  office  and  makin'  good.  He'll  tell 
you.  .  .  .  But  if  you  go  get  married,  boy,  be- 
'fore  you  show  you  could  take  care  of  yourself, 
and  what  money  I  might  leave  you — oh,  I  don 't 
say  you  got  to  put  over  any  miracle,  but  I  do 
say  you  got  to  learn  the  value  of  money  first. 
You'd  do  that  by  earnin'  some.  If  you  don't, 
then  you  and  me'd  have  a  quarrel.  Sound 
logical  to  you?'* 

Henry  was  frowning  a  little,  and  sitting 
nearer  to  the  edge  of  his  chair.  "Too  darned 
logical/'  he  said. 

His  uncle  surveyed  him  with  great  indul- 
gence. " What's  the  idea?"  he  asked,  hu- 
mourously. "You  ain't  gone  off  and  got  your- 
self married  already,  have  you?" 

Henry  stood  up,  and  squared  his  shoulders, 
and  looked  straight  into  his  uncle's  eyes.  His 
voice  was  strained,  but  at  the  same  time  it  held 
a  faint  note  of  relief,  as  if  he  had  contained  his 


E  0  P  E  13 

secret  too  long  for  his   own  nerves.    "Yes, 
Uncle  John.  ..." 

And  waited,  as  before  the  Court  of  last 
appeal. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  older  man  sat  limp  in  his  chair,  and 
stared  until  the  ash  of  his  cigar  tumbled, 
untidily,  over  his  waistcoat.  He  brushed  at  it 
with  uncertain,  ineffective  motions,  but  his  eyes 
never  left  his  nephew.  He  put  the  cigar  once 
more  to  his  lips,  shuddered,  and  flung  it  away. 

"Boy — "  he  said,  at  length,  "Boy — is  that 
true?" 

Henry  cleared  his  throat.  "Yes,  Uncle 
John." 

' '  Who  is  it  I    Anna  Barklay  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Uncle  John." 

"When?" 

' l  Yesterday  afternoon.  ' ' 

"Does — Judge  Barklay  know  it  yet?" 

"No,  not  yet.    He's  out  of  town." 

His  uncle  drew  a  tremendous  breath,  and 
pulled  himself  upright.  "Boy,"  he  said,  "why 
in  the  hell  did  you  ever  go  and  do  a  thing  like 
that?  .  .  .  Haven't  I  been  pretty  decent  to  you, 

14 


ROPE  15 

the  best  I  knew  how?  .  .  .  Why'd  you  ever  go, 
and — have  I  been  mistaken  in  you  all  this  while? 
Why,  boy,  I  thought  you  and  me  were  friends." 

There  was  another  heavy  silence.  "I  don't 
know.  It  just  happened.  The  way  things  do 
— sometimes.  We've  always  been  crazy  about 
each  other." 

Mr.  Starkweather  was  looking  at  and  through 
his  nephew,  who  was  man-grown  and  pre- 
sumably a  rational  human  being;  but  what  Mr. 
Starkweather  actually  saw  was  the  vision  of 
a  little  boy  dressed  in  Lord  Fauntleroy  velvet, 
with  silver  knee-buckles  and  a  lace  collar;  and 
much  as  a  drowning  man  is  supposed  to  review, 
in  a  lightning  flash,  every  incident  of  his  whole 
life,  so  was  Mr.  Starkweather  reviewing  the 
life  of  Henry,  beginning  with  the  era  of  black 
velvet,  and  ending  with  the  immediate  present. 
That  history  was  a  continuous  record  of  dash- 
ing impulses,  and  the  gayest  irresponsibility; 
and  yet,  when  the  time  came  for  an  accounting, 
Henry  had  offered  only  explanations,  and  never 
excuses.  In  his  glorious  pursuit  of  the 
calendar,  he  had  paid  his  penalties  as  royally  as 
he  had  earned  them;  and  even  now,  when  he 


16  ROPE 

was  confessed  of  the  most  impetuous  and  the 
most  astounding  act  of  all  his  unballasted 
youth,  he  had  nothing  to  say  in  defence.  As  a 
climax,  marriage  had  " happened"  to  him,  and 
he  was  braced  for  whatever  might  happen  next. 
Presently,  Mr.  Starkweather,  coming  out  of 
his  daze,  began  to  wonder  if,  by  this  very 
climax,  Henry  hadn't  prescribed  his  own 
medicine,  and  at  the  same  time  taken  out  insur- 
ance on  his  own  salvation.  For  one  thing,  he 
had  selected  the  right  girl — a  girl  with  no 
money,  and  plenty  of  character — a  girl  who 
would  manage  him  so  skilfully  that  Henry 
would  think  himself  the  manager.  For  another 
thing,  Mr.  Starkweather  believed  that  Henry 
was  profoundly  in  love  with  her,  even  though  he 
tried  to  conceal  his  seriousness  by  spreading  it 
with  a  generous  helping  of  light  manner,  and 
modern  vocabulary.  These  facts,  together 
with  Mr.  Starkweather's  control  of  the  finances, 
might  possibly  operate  as  the  twin  levers  which 
would  pry  Henry  out  of  his  improvidence. 
The  levers  themselves  were  certainly  strong 
enough;  it  was  a  question  only  of  Henry's  re- 
sistance. Mr.  Starkweather  winced  to  realize 


EOPE  17 

that  by  the  time  the  minute-hand  of  his  watch 
had  gone  twice  again  around  the  dial,  he  should 
know  definitely  and  permanently  whether 
Henry  was  worth  his  powder,  or  not. 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  desk,  judicially. 
"I'm  pretty  much  knocked  edgeways,  Henry 
— but  tell  me  one  more  thing;  this  wasn't  any 
bet,  was  it,  or — " 

"Bet!"  flared  Henry,  and  all  the  youth  went 
out  of  his  features. 

"Yes.  Nobody  dared  you  to  go  and  get  mar- 
ried— it  wasn't  any  kind  of  a  put-up  job,  was 
it?" 

The  younger  man  was  righteously  indignant. 
"Uncle  John,  I  admit  I  haven't  won  any  medals 
for — for  some  things, — and  maybe  you  think  I 
am  the  kind  of  bird  that  would — do  this  on  a  bet, 
or  a  dare — and  if  you  do  think  that — I  guess 
we're  both  mistaken  in  each  other!" 

His  uncle's  hand  went  up.  "Hold  your 
horses!  You've  answered  the  question.  If 
you  hadn't  got  mad,  I'd  have  thrown  you  out 
the  window.  Why  did  you  do  it,  then  ?  ...  No 
— never  mind."  He  looked  away.  "7  know. 
Spring,  and  impulse  and  no  emergency  brakes. 


18  E  0  P  E 

/  know.  .  .  ."  He  looked  back  at  Henry,  and 
smiled  oddly.  "And  I  was  just  goin'  to  tell 
you,  before  you  sprung  it  on  me,  that  if  you 
cared  two  cents  about  that  girl, — and  me,  too, 
— you'd  want  to  deserve  her — do  somethin'  be- 
sides be  a  model  to  hang  expensive  clothes  on." 

"Yes,'1  said  Henry,  also  judicial.  "I  guess 
I'm  entitled  to  that  wallop." 

His  uncle  nodded.  "That  one  and  quite  a 
few  more.  Still,  you  never  heard  anybody  ac- 
cuse me  of  not  bein'  a  good  sport,  did  you?" 

•"No,  Uncle  John.    I  counted  on  it." 

"Who  knows  this — besides  us?" 

"Just  Bob  Standish.  "We  took  him  along  for 
a  witness." 

"So!  Bob  Standish!  Hm.  I 'd  have  thought 
Bob'd  had  sense  enough  to  try  to  stop  it.  I'll 
have  words  with  him," 

"He  did  try." 

Mr.  Starkweather  rose.    "Where's  Anna?" 

1  'Out  in  the  car.    With  Bob. ' ' 

His  uncle  froze.  "Out  there?  Waitin' 
there  all  this  time?  For  Heaven's  sake,  Henry, 
she  '11  be  in  a  conniption  fit !  You  go  bring  her 
in  here — and  tell  her  to  stop  worryin'.  I'm 


ROPE  19 

sore  as  the  devil,  and  I'm  goin'  to  make  an  ex- 
ample out  of  you,  but  that  ain't  any  reason  to 
act  like  a  grouch,  is  it?  Sound  sensible  to  you? 
Bring  her  in  here.  Not  Bob — I'll  see  him 
afterwards. J ' 


She  was  small  and  intensely  feminine,  but 
there  was  nothing  fragile  about  her,  and  no 
slightest  hint  of  helplessness.  She  was  pretty 
enough,  too,  and  her  attractions  were  more  than 
skin-deep ;  to  the  qualities  which  showed  in  her 
eyes — sincerity  and  humour  and  imagination — 
there  was  also  to  be  added  sweetness  of  dis- 
position and  sensitiveness,  which  were  proved 
by  the  curves  of  her  mouth;  and  finally,  there 
was  quiet  determination,  stopping  just  short  of 
stubbornness,  which  was  evident  in  the  mould- 
ing of  her  strong  little  chin. 

She  came  in  slowly,  questioningly,  not  in  fear, 
but  merely  poised  so  as  to  adjust  herself  to  any 
style  of  reception.  Mr.  Starkweather  met  her 
eyes  and  laughed — a  fat,  spontaneous,  under- 
standing laugh — and  blushing  furiously,  she 


20  E  0  P  E 

ran  to  him,  with  both  her  hands  outstretched. 
"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Starkweather,  and 
interrupted  himself  long  enough  to  kiss  her, 
"I'll  say  Henry's  got  a  darned  sight  better 
judgment  'n  you  have.  ...  Go  on  and  blush. 
Make  a  good  job  of  it.  Ashamed  of  yourself? 
So'm  I.  Sit  down  there  and  cringe.  You  too, 
Henry."  He  himself  remained  on  his  feet. 
"Funny  thing,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "Only 
chance  I  ever  had  to  get  married  myself  was 
somethin '  like  this  is — oh,  I  wasn  rt  a  gilt  loafer, 
like  Henry  is;  I  was  workin'  sixteen  hours  a 
day,  but  I  wasn't  makin'  money  enough.  Both 
our  fathers  said  so.  And  she'd  have  run  off, 
but  I  wouldn't.  Thought  it  wasn't  respectable, 
I  guess.  Anyhow,  it  kind  of  petered  out,  and 
I  lost  my  nerve.  Wish  to  thunder  I'd  taken  a 
chance  when  I  had  it.  Worth  it,  sometimes." 
He  whirled  on  Henry,  abruptly.  "Well,  you 
took  your  chance.  Now  let's  see  if  you  think 
it's  worth  it.  If  you're  figurin'  on  any  help 
from  me,  you  got  to  work  for  it  first.  If  you  'd 
waited,  I'd  kind  of  made  things  easy  for  you. 
Now,  I'm  goin'  to  hand  you  the  meanest  job  I 
can  think  of.  It  won't  be  an  insult  and  it  won't 


E  0  P  E  21 

be  a  joke,  but  maybe  you'll  take  it  for  both — 
until  you  learn  better. ' ' 

"What  is  it,  Uncle  John?" 

"I'll  tell  you  when  you  get  back  from  your 
honeymoon. ' ' 

The  two  young  people  stared  at  each  other, 
and  at  Mr.  Starkweather.  "From  our — 
what?"  asked  the  girl,  incredulously. 

"Honeymoon.  Oh,  you  made  a  couple  of 
prize  fools  of  yourselves,  and  if  I  did  what  I 
ought  to,  I'd  cut  Henry  off  sharp  this  minute. 
But — guess  I  better  make  a  fool  of  myself,  so 
you'll  feel  more  at  home."  He  coughed  ex- 
plosively. "Besides,  you're  awful  young,  both 
of  you — and  damn  it,  if  you  don't  cash  in  on  it 
now,  next  thing  you  know  you'll  be  wonderin' 
where  the  time's  gone,  anyway.  No  sense  in 
robbin'  you  of  the  best  months  of  your  life,  just 
because  you  hadn't  sense  enough  to  rob  your- 
selves  of  it — is  there?  Oh,  I  suppose  I'm  a 
kind  of  a  sentimental  cuss,  but — must  be  I  like 
the  feelin'  of  it."  He  jerked  his  head  toward 
Henry.  "This  is  April.  Take  her  off  some- 
where— Italy?  South  of  France ?— 'till  next 
August.  Then  you  report  back  here,  all  fixed 


22  ROPE 

and  ready  to  «at  crow.     Sound  fair  to  you?" 

The  girl  rose,  and  crossed  the  room  to  him. 
"Mr.  Starkweather — " 

"Name's  Uncle  John,"  he  corrected.  "You 
married  it. '  ' 

"Uncle  John — I — I  don't  know  how  to — " 
She  bit  her  lip,  and  he  saw  the  depths  of  her 
eyes,  and  saw  that  they  were  filling  with  tears. 
She  gestured  imperatively  to  Henry.  "You 
know  him  better — you  tell  him. ' ' 

Henry  had  sprung  across  to  join  them.  "Un- 
cle John,  you're  a  peach!  I'll  break  rock  on 
the  streets  if  you  say  so!  You're  a  peach!" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Starkweather,  uncomfor- 
tably. "If  everybody  else's  goin'  to  bawl,  I 
guess  it'll  have  to  be  contagious.  .  .  .  Only 
when  you  get  back,  you're  both  goin'  to  pay  the 
piper.  I'm  goin'  to  make  Henry  earn  his  salt, 
whether  he's  got  it  in  him  or  not;  I'm  goin'  to 
make  him  crawl.  That  goes  as  it  stands,  too; 
no  foolin'.  .  .  .  Look  here,  don't  you  want  me 
to  break  it  to  the  Judge?  Guess  I  better.  I 
can  put  it  up  to  him  in  writin'  twice  as  good 
as  Henry  put  it  up  to  me  by  talkin',  anyhow. 
.  .  .  And  I'll  put  an  announcement  in  the 


ROPE  23 

Herald  that'll  take  the  cuss  off.  Anna,  you 
hustle  up  some  engraved  notices  to  get  around 
to  all  our  friends.  You  know  what's  in 
style.  .  .  .  Oh,  you're  a  couple  of  champion 
idiots,  and  Henry's  goin'  to  sweat  for  it  when 
he  comes  home,  but — God  bless  you,  my  boy, 
and  you  too,  my  dear — only  how  in  blazes  am 
I  goin'  to  get  it  across  to  Mirabelle?  That's 
what  bites  me  the  worst,  Henry;  that's  what 
bites  me  the  worst!" 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  a  small  office  on  the  third  floor  of  the  City 
Bank  Building  Mr.  Theodore  Mix,  broker 
and  amateur  politician,  sat  moodily  intent  upon 
Ids  morning  newspaper.  For  thirty  years  (he 
was  fifty-five)  Mr.  Mix  had  been  a  prominent 
and  a  mildly  influential  citizen,  and  by  great  ef- 
fort he  had  managed  to  keep  himself  excessively 
overrated.  A  few  years  ago  he  had  even  been 
mentioned  as  a  candidate  for  Mayor,  and  the 
ambition  was  still  alive  within  him,  although 
fulfilment  was  never  so  distant.  But  despite 
his  appearance,  which  was  dignified,  and  des- 
pite his  manner,  which  would  have  done  for 
the  diplomatic  corps,  and  despite  his  con- 
nection with  local  charities  and  churches  and 
civic  committees,  Mr.  Mix  was  secretly  a  bit  of 
a  bounder;  and  although  the  past  decade  or 
two  he  had  made  a  handsome  income,  he  had 
contrived  to  get  rid  of  it  as  fast  as  he  con- 

24 


ROPE  25 

veniently  could,  and  by  methods  which  wouldn't 
always  have  stood  analysis. 

Lately,  for  no  apparent  cause,  his  best  cus- 
tomers had  edged  away  from  him ;  he  was  glid- 
ing rapidly  into  debt,  and  he  knew  that  unless 
he  clambered  out  again  within  six  or  eight 
weeks,  he  should  have  considerable  difficulty 
in  preserving  his  reputation,  both  financial  and 
ethical.  And  like  all  men  in  the  same  position, 
Mr.  Mix  was  fiercely  jealous"  of  his  prestige; 
by  long  practice  he  had  warped  himself  into 
thinking  that  it  belonged  to  him;  and  he  was 
ready  to  defend  it  with  every  conceivable 
weapon. 

For  the  moment,  however,  Mr.  Mix  was 
querulous  rather  than  defensive.  He  was  try- 
ing to  place  the  blame  for  the  past  two  sea- 
sons of  misfortune,  and  when  he  observed  that 
Pacific  Eefining  was  twelve  points  up  from  Sat- 
urday's close,  he  sighed  wearily  and  told  him- 
self that  it  was  all  a  matter  of  luck.  He  had 
had  an  appointment,  last  Saturday  at  nine 
o  'clock,  with  his  friend  John  Starkweather,  and 
he  had  meant  to  borrow  something  from  him,  if 


26  ROPE 

possible,  and  to  risk  a  few  hundred  shares  of 
Pacific  Refining  on  margin;  but  he  had  over- 
slept, and  Mr.  Starkweather  had  left  his  office 
at  nine  fifteen  and  hadn't  come  back  again  that 
day,  so  that  the  profit  which  might  so  easily 
have  come  to  rest  in  Mr.  Mix's  pockets  was  now 
in  other  quarters. 

Luck!  The  most  intangible  of  assets  and 
the  most  unescapable  of  liabilities.  On  Satur- 
day, Mr.  Mix  had  arrived  too  late  because  he 
had  overslept  because  his  alarm-clock  had  been 
tinkered  by  a  watchmaker  who  had  inherited  a 
taste  for  alcohol  from  a  parent  who  had  been 
ruined  by  the  Chicago  fire — and  almost  before 
he  knew  it,  Mr.  Mix  had  trailed  the  blame  to 
Adam  and  Eve,  and  was  feeling  personally  re- 
sentful. It  was  plain  to  him  that  his  failure 
wasn  't  in  any  sense  his  own  fault. 

As  he  resumed  his  paper,  however,  his 
querulousness  yielded  to  a  broad  sunny  opti- 
mism, and  he  turned  to  the  sporting  page  and 
hunted  out  the  news  from  the  Bowie  track. 
He  had  a  friend  at  Bowie,  and  the  friend  owned 
a  horse  which  he  swore  was  the  darkest  three- 
year-old  in  captivity;  he  had  wired  Mr.  Mix  to 


ROPE  27 

hypothecate  his  shirt,  and  bet  the  proceeds  on 
the  fourth  race,  this  coming  Saturday.  The 
odds  would  be  at  least  10  to  1,  he  said,  and  he 
could  place  all  the  money  that  Mr.  Mix  might 
send  him. 

Mr.  Mix  leaned  back  and  built  a  stable  in  the 
air.  Suppose  he  could  borrow  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand. Twenty  thousand  clear  profit.  Then  a 
quick  dash  into  the  cotton-market  (the  price  was 
certainly  going  to  break  wide  open  in  another 
month)  and  the  twenty  would  unfold,  and  ex- 
pand, and  become  fifty.  And  if  a  shrewd,  cold- 
blooded man  went  down  to  Wall  Street  with 
fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  played  close  to  his 
chest,  he  ought  to  double  his  capital  in  four 
months.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Mix  had  been  losing 
steadily  for  a  dozen  years,  but  he  was  confi- 
dent that  he  had  it  in  him  to  be  a  great  and 
successful  plunger.  He  felt  it.  Heretofore, 
he  had  been  handicapped  by  operating  on  a 
shoestring;  but  with  fifty  thousand  dollars  to 
put  his  back  against — 

His  stenographer  announced  a  caller,  and 
on  the  instant,  Mr.  Mix,  put  on  his  other  per- 
sonality, and  prepared  to  silver  his  tongue. 


28  ROPE 

The  caller,  however,  came  straight  to  Mr.  Mix's 
desk,  and  flipped  out  one  sheet  from  a  large 
portfolio.  "Say,"  he  remarked  brusquely. 
"What's  the  matter  with  this  bill?  Ziegler 
and  Company.  Two  ninety  two  sixty — dated 
November. ' y 

Mr.  Mix  laughed  genially,  and  offered  a  ci- 
gar. "Why,  nothing's  the  matter  with  it. 
"What's  the  matter  with  Ziegler  and  Com- 
pany? Aren't  they  solvent?" 

The  visitor  lighted  his  cigar,  and  mellowed. 
"Well  it  ain't  any  of  my  funeral,  but  Ziegler 
he  says  if  you  don't  settle  by  the  fifteenth,  he'll 
give  it  to  his  attorney." 

For  the  third  time  in  a  week,  an  attorney 
had  been  lugged  into  the  conversation;  more 
than  that,  Mr.  Mix  had  received  four  letters 
from  two  different  collection  agencies.  "In 
the  words  of  the  Good  Book,"  he  said  sooth- 
ingly, "have  patience  and  I  will  pay  thee  all." 

"What  say?  Will  I  come  in  next  week  some- 
time?" 

"Now,  that,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  with  a  rush  of 
approval,  "is  a  first-rate  idea.  That's  first- 
rate.  Come  in  next  week  some  time. ' ' 


ROPE  29 

"Right-o.  Only  Ziegler,  he's  pretty  hard- 
boiled,  Mr.  Mix.  .  .  .  Say,  why  don't  you 
gimme  a  check  now,  and  save  me  from  gettin' 
flat-footed?  Two  ninety  two  sixty?  Why  for 
you  that's  chicken-feed." 

"Bill  hasn't  been  audited  yet,"  said  Mr. 
Mix,  with  all  the  grandeur  of  an  industrial 
chieftain.  * '  Come  in  next  week. ' ' 

The  visitor  went  out,  and  Mr.  Mix  scowled 
at  the  bill,  threatened  to  tear  it,  and  finally  put 
it  away  in  a  drawer  where  it  had  plenty  of 
companionship.  To  think  that  after  his  life- 
time as  an  important  citizen — generally  sup- 
posed to  be  well-to-do  if  not  actually  rich — 
he  couldn't  pay  a  trifling  account  of  less  than 
three  hundred  dollars  because  he  didn't  have 
three  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank.  Collec- 
tion agencies  and  the  warning  of  suits — and 
impertinence  from  young  ruffians  who  were 
hired  to  dun  him!  He  scowled  more  heavily, 
and  then  gave  his  shoulders  an  upward  move- 
ment of  rancour  and  disgust. 

And  yet — the  lines  receded  from  his  forehead 
— and  yet  there  was  always  John  Starkweather, 
and  the  friend  at  Bowie.  Mr.  Mix  rose,  and 


30  E  0  P  E 

went  out  to  the  corridor,  and  down  it  to  a 
door  which  was  lettered  with  Mr.  Stark- 
weather's name,  followed  by  the  inscription: 
Keal  Estate  and  Insurance,  Mortgage  Loans. 
And  as  he  entered,  and  remembered  that  thirty 
years  ago  he  and  John  Starkweather  had  oc- 
cupied adjoining  stools  at  the  same  high  desk, 
and  broken  their  back  over  the  same  drudgery, 
and  at  the  same  wage,  he  was  filled  with  an 
emotion  which  made  his  cheeks  warm.  Side 
by  side,  only  thirty  years  ago,  and  separated 
now  by  the  Lord  knew  what,  and  the  Lord 
knew  why.  Mr.  Mix  knew  that  he  was  brainier 
than  John  Starkweather;  he  admitted  it. 
Brainier,  smoother,  quicker  of  wit,  and  more 
polished.  But  Starkweather's  office  handled 
the  bulk  of  local  realty  transactions;  it  wrote 
more  insurance  than  all  of  its  competitors  in  a 
mass;  it  loaned  almost  as  much  money,  on 
mortgage,  as  the  Trust  and  Savings.  And  Mr. 
Mix,  Broker,  was  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy. 
Luck !  No  question  about  it. 

At  the  swinging  gate  there  was  a  girl-clerk 
who  smiled  up  at  him,  flirtatiously.    "Want  to 


ROPE  31 

see  the  boss  T    He 's  busy  for  a  coupla  minutes. ' ' 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Mix  in  an  undertone. 
"I'll  stay  here  and  talk  to  you." 

' '  The  nerve  of  some  folks  I  Think  I  'm  paid 
to  listen  to  your  line  of  hot  air?  Not  'till  they 
double  my  salary.  You  go  sit  down  and  have 
a  thought.  Exercise 's  what  you  need. ' ' 

Mr.  Mix  rolled  his  eyes  heavenward.  "So 
young,  and  so  heartless!"  he  murmured,  and 
went  sedately  forward  to  the  reception  room. 

The  door  of  the  private  office  was  not  quite 
closed;  so  that  the  voices  of  two  men  were 
faintly  audible.  Mr.  Mix  cast  about  him,  made 
sure  that  he  was  unobserved,  and  dignifiedly 
changed  his  seat — nearer  that  door. 

"Yes,"  said  a  voice  which  at  first  he  couldn't 
recognize.  "The  deed's  recorded.  So  legally, 
Henry  owns  the  property  now."  Mr.  Mix 
nodded  triumphantly ;  the  voice  belonged  to  Mr. 
Archer,  a  leading  lawyer  and  Mr.  Stark- 
weather's closest  friend. 

"That's  the  idea."  This  was  in  Mr.  Stark- 
weather's familiar  bass.  "Now  how'd  you  fix 
the  will!" 


32  E  0  P  E 

"Why,  it  was  very  simple.  Your  point  was 
that  you  didn't  want  everybody  to  know  what 
was  going  on.  So — " 

"No.  And  if  I  put  a  lot  o'  conditions  like 
that  in  a  will,  why  just  as  soon  as  it  was  pro- 
bated, Henry  and  Mirabelle  'd  both  get  an  awful 
lot  o'  bum  publicity.  They'd  both  be  sore, 
and  I'd  look  like  a  nut.  .  .  .  Naturally,  I  don't 
plan  to  die  off  as  soon  as  all  this,  but  better 
be  safe.  I  just  want  to  fix  it  up  so  Henry '11 
get  the  same  deal  no  matter  what  happens. ' ' 

"Very  wise,  very  wise,  .  .  .  Well,  here's 
what  I've  done.  I've  changed  the  will  so  that 
the  entire  residuary  estate  is  left  to  me  in  trust 
for  your  sister  and  nephew  to  be  administered 
according  to  the  trust-deed  we're  executing  to- 
day. They  can  probate  that  until  they're  black 
in  the  face,  but  nobody's  going  to  find  out  any 
more  than  we  want  them  to." 

"Sounds  all  right  so  far,  but  don't  you  have 
to  take  a  trust  agreement  like  that  into  Court, 
too?" 

' '  Sooner  or  later,  yes.  But  you  '11  notice  that 
I've  covered  it  so  that  unless  Henry  or  Miss 
Starkweather  says  something,  nobody's  go- 


ROPE  33 

ing  to  know  until  the  year's  out,  and  I  make 
the  accounting.  Now  for  the  trust  agreement 
itself — if  Henry  demonstrates  to  me  that  with- 
in a  year — " 

"A  year  from  August  first.  The  lease  don't 
expire  'till  then,  and  Henry  won't  be  home  *till 
then.  August  to  August's  what  I'm  goin'  to 
put  up  to  him." 

"Correct.  If  he  demonstrates  to  me  that 
within  the  calendar  year  he 's  made  a  net  profit 
of  ten  thousand  dollars  from  the  property — by 
the  way,  isn't  that  rather  steep?" 

"No.  Man's  in  there  now's  made  three 
thousand  and  manhandled  it.  Just  horse-sense 
and  some  alterations  and  advertising '11  bring 
it  up  to  ten." 

"You're  the  doctor.  If  Henry  makes  ten 
out  of  it,  then  he  receives  from  me,  as  trustee, 
the  whole  residuary  estate,  otherwise  it  goes  to 
your  sister.  And  during  that  trial  year,  she 
gets  the  whole  income  from  it,  anyway." 

Mr.  Mix  was   sitting  motionless  as  a  cat. 

"That's  right." 

"Well,  then,  if  you'll  just  read  these  over  and 
make  sure  I  Ve  got  your  meaning,  and  then  get 


34  E  0  P  E 

a  couple  of  witnesses  in  here,  we  can  clear  the 
whole  thing  up  and  have  it  out  of  the  way." 

Mr.  Mix  heard  the  scrape  of  chair-legs  against 
the  floor,  and  hastily,  on  tiptoe,  he  crossed  the 
room  to  his  original  seat,  and  in  passing  the 
centre  table  he  helped  himself  to  a  magazine 
which  he  was  reading  with  much  concentration 
when  the  door  of  the  private  office  opened. 

"Why,  hello,  Mix,"  said  Mr.  Starkweather. 
"Been  waitin'  long?  Be  with  you  in  half  a 
second. ' ' 

"Just  got  here,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  as  though 
startled.  He  returned  the  magazine  to  the 
table,  and  was  still  standing  when  his  friend 
came  back,  in  convoy  of  young  Mr.  Robert  Stan- 
dish,  his  chief  assistant. 

"Come  on  in,  Mix.  Want  you  to  witness  a 
will." 

"Anything  to  oblige,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  with 
alacrity. 

He  spoke  cordially  to  young  Mr.  Standish 
and  in  another  moment,  to  the  lawyer.  With 
due  solemnity  he  carried  out  the  function  which 
was  assigned  to  him;  he  would  have  loved  a 
peep  at  the  body  of  the  documents,  but  already 


ROPE  35 

he  was  possessed  of  some  very  interesting  in- 
formation, and  he  kept  his  eyes  religiously  in 
the  boat.  Mr.  Mix  believed  that  in  business  and 
society,  as  well  as  in  war,  advance  information 
is  the  basis  of  victory;  and  even  while  he  was 
blotting  his  second  signature,  he  was  wonder- 
ing how  to  capitalize  what  he  had  overheard. 
No  inspiration  came  to  him;  so  that  methodi- 
cally he  stowed  away  the  facts  for  reference. 

"Stay  right  here,  Mix.  That's  all,  ain't  it, 
Mr.  Archer?" 

"That's  all.'*  The  lawyer  was  packing  up 
his  papers.  "Good-morning,  gentlemen."  He 
bowed  himself  away;  Standish  had  long  since 
vanished. 

Mr.  Starkweather  mopped  his  face.  "Hot, 
ain't  it?" 

"You  aren't  looking  so  very  fit,"  said  Mr. 
Mix,  critically.  "Feel  all  right,  do  you?" 

Mr.  Starkweather  pulled  himself  together. 
"Sure,"  he  said,  but  his  voice  lacked  its  usual 
heartiness.  "I  feel  fine.  Well,  what  can  I  do 
for  you?" 

Mr.  Mix,  delaying  only  to  close  the  door 
(and  to  see  that  it  latched)  began  with  a  fore- 


36  E  0  P  E 

word  which  was  followed  by  a  preface  and 
then  by  a  prelude,  but  he  had  hardly  reached 
the  main  introduction  when  Mr.  Starkweather 
put  up  his  hand.  ' '  To  make  a  long  story  short, 
Mix — how  much  do  you  want?" 

Mr.  Mix  looked  pained.    "Why,  to  tide  me 
over  the  dull  season,  John,  I  need — let's  see — 
He  stole  a  glance  at  his  friend,  and  doubled 
the  ante.    "About  five  thousand." 

Mr.  Starkweather  drummed  on  his  desk. 
"Any  security?" 

Mr.  Mix  smiled  blandly.  "What's  security 
between  friends  ?  I  '11  give  you  a  demand  note. ' ' 

At  length,  Mr.  Starkweather  stopped  drum- 
ming. "Mix,  I  don't  quite  get  you.  .  .  .  You've 
had  a  good  business ;  you  must  have  made  con- 
siderable money.  You  oughtn't  be  borrowin' 
from  me;  that's  what  your  bank's  for.  You 
oughtn't  be  borrowin'  money  any  way.  You 
been  too  big  a  man  to  get  in  a  hole  like  this. 
What's  wrong — business  rotten?" 

"Too  good,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  frankly.  "It's 
taking  all  my  capital  to  carry  my  customers. 
And  you  know  how  tight  money  is." 

"Oh,  yes.    Well — I  guess  your  credit's  good 


EOPE  37 

for  five,  all  right.  When  do  you  have  to  have 
it?  Now?" 

"Any  time  that  suits  you,  suits  me." 

Mr.  Starkweather  shook  his  head.  "No,  it 
don't,  either.  When  a  man  wants  money,  he 
wants  it.  Wants  it  some  particular  day.  When 
is  it!" 

"Why,  if  you  could  let  me  have  it  today, 
John,  I'd  appreciate  it." 

"Make  out  your  note,"  said  Mr.  Stark- 
weather, heavily,  "Interest  at  six  percent,  semi- 
annually.  I'll  have  the  cashier  write  you  out 
a  check." 

Ten  minutes  later  Mr.  Mix,  patting  his 
breast  pocket  affectionately,  bestowed  a  pater- 
nal smile  upon  the  girl  at  the  wicket;  and  Mr. 
Starkweather,  alone  in  his  office,  drew  a 
prodigious  breath  and  slumped  down  in  his 
chair,  and  fell  to  gazing  out  over  the  roof- 
tops. 

It  was  a  fortnight,  now,  since  Henry's  last 
letter.  He  wished  that  Henry  would  write 
oftener.  He  told  himself  that  one  of  Henry's 
impulsive,  buoyant  letters  would  furnish  the 
only  efficacious  antidote  to  Mirabelle.  And  he 


38  EOPE 

needed  an  antidote,  and  a  powerful  one,  for 
during  the  past  two  weeks  Mirabelle  had  been 
surpassing  herself.  That  is,  if  one  can  surpass 
a  superlative. 

Judge  Barklay,  of  course,  had  taken  the  rev- 
elation like  a  man.  Like  a  philosopher.  He 
was  fond  of  Henry  personally;  he  had  objected 
to  him  purely  for  the  obvious  reasons.  He 
agreed,  however,  with  Mr.  Starkweather — mar- 
riage might  awaken  Henry  to  complete  respon- 
sibility. Indeed  he  had  Mr.  Starkweather's 
guaranty  of  it.  To  be  sure  a  secret  marriage 
was  somewhat  sensational,  somewhat  inde- 
corous— 

" Humph!"  Mirabelle  had  interrupted.  "I 
don't  know  who's  insulted  most — you  or  us. 
Still  I  suppose  you've  got  one  consolation — 
and  that's  if  two  young  fools  marry  each  other 
instead  of  somebody  else  it  only  leaves  just 
the  two  of  'em  to  repent  at  leisure  instead  of 
four." 

Mr.  Starkweather  recalled,  with  chagrin,  his 
own  and  the  Judge's  futile  attempts  at  tact. 
Mirabelle  was  tact-proof;  you  might  as  well 
try  subtle  diplomacy  on  a  locomotive.  He  took 


ROPE  39 

another  deep  breath,  and  gazed  abstractedly  out 
over  the  roof-tops.  He  wished  that  Henry 
would  write.  Henry  had  his  defects,  but  the 
house  was  not  quite  livable  without  him.  Mr. 
Starkweather  was  swept  by  an  emotion  which 
took  him  wholly  by  surprise  and  almost  over- 
came him;  he  sat  up,  and  began  to  wonder 
where  he  could  find  some  occupation  which 
would  chink  up  the  crevices  in  his  thoughts,  and 
prevent  him  from  introspection.  Eventually  he 
hit  upon  it,  and  with  a  conscious  effort,  he 
pulled  himself  out  of  his  chair,  and  went  over 
to  Masonic  Hall  to  meet  his  sister  Mirabelle. 
She  had  been  attending  a  conference  of  the 
Ethical  Reform  League,  and  as  Mr.  Starjk- 
weather  's  car  drew  in  to  the  curb,  the  reformers 
were  just  emerging  to  the  sidewalk.  He  sur- 
veyed them,  disparagingly.  First,  there  was 
a  vanguard  of  middle-aged  women,  remarkably 
short  of  waist  and  long  of  skirt,  who  looked  as 
though  they  had  stepped  directly  from  the  files 
of  Godey's  Lady's  Book;  he  recognized  a  few 
of  them,  and  judged  the  others  accordingly — 
these  were  the  militants,  the  infantry,  who  bore 
the  brunt  of  the  fighting.  Next,  there  was  a 


40  ROPE 

group  of  younger  women,  and  of  young  men — 
the  men,  almost  without  exception,  wore  spec- 
tacles and  white  washable  ties.  These  were  the 
skirmishers  and  the  reserves.  At  one  side, 
there  was  a  little  delegation  in  frock-coats  and 
silk  hats,  and  as  Mr.  Starkweather  beheld  them, 
he  lifted  his  eyebrows;  some  of  those  older 
men  he  hadn  't  seen  in  public  for  a  dozen  years 
— he  had  forgotten  that  they  were  alive.  But 
the  majority  of  them  were  retired  or  retiring 
capitalists;  men  who  in  their  day,  had  man- 
aged important  interests,  and  even  now  con- 
trolled them.  Mr.  Starkweather  reflected  that 
life  must  have  become  very  insipid  to  them; 
and  he  further  reflected  that  their  place  in  this 
organization  must  be  as  shock-troops.  They 
would  seldom  go  into  action,  but  when  they  did, 
they  had  the  power  of  consequence  to  give  them 
an  added  momentum. 

His  sister  caught  sight  of  him,  and  waved 
her  hand  in  greeting;  and  this  astonished  him 
all  the  more,  because  since  Henry's  departure, 
she  had  behaved  towards  him  as  though  his 
character  needed  a  bath. 

Mr.     Starkweather    made    room    for    her. 


ROPE  41 

* '  Thought  I  'd  give  you  a  lift  back  to  the  house, ' ' 
he  said. 

There  was  an  unusual  colour  in  her  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  were  brilliant.  "John,  do  you 
know  what  I  am?" 

Mr.  Starkweather  didn't  dare  to  hesitate. 
"No.  What?" 

"I'm  the — president,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  trembling  with  pride  and  bewilderment. 

"President?    Of  the  League?" 

Transfigured,  she  nodded  again  and  again. 
"The  nominating  committee  reported  this 
morning.  I'm  the  only  candidate.  ..."  She 
stared  at  him  and  stiffened.  "Of  course,  I 
know  you  aren't  interested  in  anything  helpful 
or  progressive,  so  I  don't  expect  to  be  con- 
gratulated. Of  course  not." 

Mr.  Starkweather  made  a  dutiful  struggle 
to  be  joyous  about  it,  and  succeeded  only  in 
producing  a  feeble  smirk.  "I'll  say  one  thing 
— you've  got  some  money  represented  in  that 
crowd.  Those  old  codgers.  I  didn't  realize 
it.  ...  Well,  what's  your  program?" 

She  unbent  a  little,  and  began  to  recite  her 
platform,  and  as  she  skipped  from  plank  to 


42  E  0  P  E 

plank,  her  own  enthusiasm  was  multiplied,  and 
Mr.  Starkweather  was  correspondingly  encased 
in  gloom.  As  a  mere  active  member  of  the 
League,  a  private  in  the  ranks,  Mirabelle  had 
made  his  house  no  more  cheerful  as  a  mauso- 
leum; and  when  he  considered  what  she  might 
accomplish  as  a  president,  in  charge  of  a  sweep- 
ing blue-law  campaign,  his  imagination  refused 
to  take  the  hurdle. 

Fortunately,  he  wasn't  expected  to  say  any- 
thing. His  sister  was  making  a  speech.  She 
didn't  stop  when  the  car  stopped,  nor  when 
Mr.  Starkweather  climbed  down  stiffly,  and 
held  open  the  door  for  her,  nor  even  when  they 
had  reached  the  portico  of  the  big  brick  house. 
He  told  himself,  dumbly,  that  if  the  world 
would  ever  listen  to  Mirabelle,  it  would  cer- 
tainly reform.  Not  necessarily  in  contrition, 
but  in  self-defence. 

And  yet  when  he  sat  opposite  her,  at  lunch, 
his  expression  was  as  calm  and  untroubled  as 
though  she  had  fashioned  for  him  an  ideal  ex- 
istence. He  was  seeing  a  vision  of  Mirabelle 
as  a  soap-box  orator;  he  was  seeing  humorous 
stories  about  her  in  the  newspapers;  he  was 


E  0  P  E  43 

shuddering  at  all  the  publicity  which  he  knew 
would  be  her  portion,  and  yet  he  could  smile 
across  the  table  at  her,  and  speak  in  his  nor- 
mal voice.  Physically,  he  was  distressed  and 
joyless,  but  he  found  it  easier  to  rise  above  his 
body  than  above  his  mind.  His  smile  was  a 
tribute  to  a  dual  heroism. 

"Got  a  little  present  for  you,"  said  Mr. 
Starkweather,  suddenly.  He  tossed  a  slip  of 
paper  to  her,  and  watched  her  as  she  examined 
it.  "There's  a  string  to  it,  though. — I  want 
you  to  hold  it  awhile." 

She  looked  up,  sceptically.  "Suppose  it's 
good!" 

"Oh,  it's  perfectly  good.  Mix  is  all  right. 
Only  I  don't  want  you  to  press  him  for  awhile. 
Not  for  three,  four  months,  anyhow."  He 
pushed  away  his  dessert,  untasted.  "You 
know  why  I'm  givin'  you  these  little  dibs  and 
dabs  every  now  and  then,  don't  you!  So  if 
anything  ever  happens  to  me,  all  of  a  sudden, 
you'll  have  somethin'  to  draw  on.  Let's  see, 
I've  put  about  forty  in  the  little  trust  fund 
I  been  buildin'  up  for  you,  and  given  you 
twelve — "  He  broke  off  abruptly;  his  own 


44  EOPE 

symptoms  puzzled  him.    As  though  somebody 
had  tried  to  throttle  him. 

His  sister  had  already  been  sitting  bolt  up- 
right, but  now  she  achieved  an  even  greater 
rigidity.  "Did  you  take  my  advice  about  your 
will?  I  don't  suppose  you  did." 

"I  made  some  changes  in  it  this  morning," 
said  Mr.  Starkweather,  uncomfortably. 

"Did  you  do  what  I  told  you  to — about 
Henry?" 

He  was  struggling  to  keep  a  grip  on  him- 
self. "Well,  no — not  exactly." 

"Oh,  you  didn't?"  she  said  tartly.  "Well, 
what  did  you  do?" 

"Mirabelle,"  said  her  brother,  "don't  you 
think  that's — just  a  little  mite  personal?" 

"Well — I  should  hope  so.  I  meant  it  to  be. 
After  the  way  Henry's  acted,  he  don't  de- 
serve one  bit  of  sympathy,  or  one  dollar  from 
anybody.  And  if  7Ve  got  anything  to  say,  he 
won't  get  it,  either." 

Mr.  Starkweather's  round,  fat  face,  wore  an 
expression  which  his  sister  hadn't  seen  before. 
He  stood  up,  and  held  the  back  of  his  chair  for 
support  "Mirabelle,  you  haven't  got  a  word 


ROPE  45 

to  say  about  it.  I've  made  some  changes  in  my 
will,  but  it's  nobody's  damned  business  outside 
of  mine. ' ' 

She  reached  for  her  handkerchief.  "John! 
To  think  that  you'd  swear — at  me — " 

He  wet  his  lips.  "I  didn't  swear  at  you,  but 
it's  a  holy  wonder  I  don't.  I've  stood  this  just 
about  as  long  as  I'm  goin'  to.  Henry's  my  own 
flesh  and  blood.  And  furthermore  he  wouldn't 
waste  my  money  a  minute  quicker  'n  you  would. 
He'd  do  a  damn  sight  better  with  it.  He'd 
have  *a  good  time  with  it,  and  make  everybody 
in  the  neighbourhood  happy,  and  you'd  burn 
it  up  in  one  of  your  confounded  reform  clubs. 
Well,  all  I've  got's  a  sister  and  a  nephew,  so 
I  guess  the  money's  goin'  to  be  wasted  anyhow. 
But  one  way's  as  good's  another,  and  Henry's 
goin'  to  get  a  fair  break,  and  don't  you  forget 
it."  He  took  a  glass  of  water  from  the  table, 
and  spilled  half  of  it.  ' '  Don 't  you  forget  it. ' ' 

At  last,  she  had  perception.  "John,  you 
don't  know  what  you're  saying!  What's  the 
matter  I  Are  you  sick  ? ' ' 

He  was  swallowing  repeatedly.  "Yes,  I  am. 
Sick  of  the  whole  thing."  His  eyes,  and  the 


46  ROPE 

hue  of  his  cheeks,  genuinely  alarmed  her;  she 
went  to  him,  but  he  avoided  her.  "No,  I  don't 
want  anything  except  to  be  let  alone.  ...  Is 
the  car  out  there!" 

"But  John — listen  to  me — " 

He  waved  her  off.  "I  listened  to  you  the  day 
Henry  came  home,  Mirabelle.  That's  enough 
to  last  me  quite  some  time.  I  ain't  forgot  a 
word  you  said — not  a  word.  Where's  my 
hat?"  He  rushed  past  her,  and  out  of  the 
house,  and  left  her  gaping  after  him. 

Half  an  hour  later,  young  Mr.  Standish  tele- 
phoned to  her. 

"Miss  Starkweather?  .  .  .  Your  brother 
isn't  feeling  any  too  well,  and  I've  just  sent 
him  home.  He  looks  to  me  as  if  he's  in  pretty 
bad  shape.  Wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  have 
your  doctor  there,  seems  to  me." 

She  had  the  doctor  there,  and  before  the  night 
was  over,  there  was  another  doctor  in  consulta- 
tion. There  were  also  two  nurses.  And  to  both 
doctors,  both  nurses  and  Mirabelle,  Mr.  Stark- 
weather, who  knew  his  destiny,  whispered  the 
same  message  at  intervals  of  fifteen  minutes. 
"Don't  have  Henry  come  back — don't  have 


E  0  P  E  47 

Henry  come  back — no  sense  his  comin'  back  'till 
August.  Tell  him  I  said  so.  Tell  him  I  want 
him  to  stay  over  there — 'till  August." 

And  then,  in  the  cool,  fresh  morning,  Mr. 
Starkweather,  who  hadn't  stirred  a  muscle  for 
several  hours,  suddenly  tried  to  sit  up. 

"Postman!"  said  Mr.  Starkweather,  with 
much  difficulty. 

He  was  waiting  for  a  letter  from  Henry,  and 
when  they  put  it  into  his  hands,  he  smiled  and 
was  content.  He  hadn't  the  strength  to  open 
it,  and  he  wouldn  't  let  anyone  else  touch  it ;  he 
was  satisfied  to  know  that  Henry  had  written. 
And  after  that,  there  was  nothing  worth  wait- 
ing for. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  never  occurred  to  Henry,  when  he  came 
home  in  late  July,  to  take  his  wife  to  the 
big  brick  house  which  had  been  his  uncle 's.  He 
didn  't  know  whether  the  house  would  go  to  Aunt 
Mirabelle  or  to  himself,  and  for  the  time  being, 
it  was  immaterial;  Aunt  Mirabelle  was  wel- 
come to  possession  of  it,  undisturbed.  Except 
for  his  uncle,  there  would  have  been  open  war- 
fare between  them  long  ago ;  now  that  the  arbi- 
trator was  gone,  war  was  inevitable,  but  Henry 
wouldn't  fight  on  sacred  ground.  He  preferred 
to  accept  the  hospitality  of  Judge  Barklay.  The 
Judge's  house  was  a  third  the  size,  and  not  the 
least  prepossessing,  and  there  really  wasn't 
room  for  the  young  Devereuxs  in  it,  but  as  soon 
as  you  stepped  inside  the  door,  you  knew  that 
you  were  welcome. 

He  was  sorry  for  his  aunt,  and  he  went  to  see 
her  immediately,  but  even  in  this  new  situation, 
she  let  him  know  that  she  disapproved  of  him 

48 


ROPE  49 

thoroughly  and  permanently.  She  wasn't  rec- 
onciled to  his  marriage;  she  didn't  care  to  re- 
ceive Anna ;  she  implied  that  regardless  of  Mr. 
Starkweather's  express  wishes,  Henry  was  a 
stony-hearted  ingrate  for  remaining  so  long 
abroad.  To  be  sure,  his  presence  at  home 
would  have  served  no  purpose  whatsoever,  but 
Mirabelle  was  firm  in  her  opinion.  More  than 
that,  she  succeeded  in  making  Henry  feel  that 
by  his  conduct  he  had  hurried  his  uncle  into  an 
untimely  grave;  she  didn't  say  this  flatly,  nor 
yet  by  innuendo,  but  she  managed  to  convey  it 
through  the  atmosphere. 

1  'Of  course,"  she  said,  "you've  been  to  call 
on  Mr.  Archer,  haven 't  you  ? ' ' 

Henry  flushed  indignantly.  "I  hadn't  even 
thought  about  it. ' ' 

' 'Well,  when  you  do,  you'll  hear  some  fine 
news."  Her  lip  curled.  "Your  friend  Bob 
Standish's  bought  the  business.  Some  of  it, 
anyway.  Bought  it  on  a  shoestring's  my  guess, 
— but  he 's  bought  it. ' ' 

"I  didn't  know  it,  Aunt  Mirabelle." 

"Well,  they  only  closed  the  deal  a  few  days 
ago." 


50  ROPE 

''Good  for  Bob!"  He  was  thinking  that  if 
honest  toil  were  demanded  of  him,  nothing 
could  be  more  pleasant  than  an  alliance  with 
this  same  Standish.  His  uncle  had  always  of- 
fered up  Standish,  subtly,  as  an  illustration  of 
what  Henry  himself  ought  to  be.  And  it  was  a 
tribute  to  the  mutual  affection  of  all  three  men 
that  Henry  had  never  been  irritated  at  Mr. 
Starkweather,  nor  resentful  towards  his  friend. 
On  the  contrary,  he  admitted  that  unless  he 
were  himself,  he  would  rather  be  Standish 
than  anyone  else.  He  wondered  if  his  uncle 
could  have  planned  for  him  so  delightful  a  pen- 
nance  as  a  year  or  two  of  happy  servitude  under 
Bob.  He  must  see  Bob  and  congratulate  him. 
Only  twenty-seven,  and  the  head  of  the  most 
important  concern  of  its  type  in  several  coun- 
ties. 

Aunt  Mirabelle  sniffed.  "Good  for  nothing. 
He's  most  as  scatter-brained  as  you  are." 

Henry  declined  the  combat,  and  after  she 
sensed  his  intention,  she  went  on,  with  increas- 
ing acridity. 

"The  rest  of  the  whole  estate's  tied  up  for 
a  year  in  a  trust,  to  see  what  you're  going  to 


EOPE  51 

do  with  some  piece  of  property  he  deeded  to 
you  just  before  he  died,  but  Mr.  Archer 
wouldn't  tell  me  much  about  it  'till  you  came 
home.  I  suppose  it's  part  of  the  business — 
some  department  of  it.  If  you  can  make  ten 
thousand  dollars  out  of  it,  you  're  to  have  every- 
thing. All  /  get 's  a  few  thousand  outright,  and 
what  John  gave  me  in  a  little  separate  fund, 
and  a  year's  income  from  the  whole  estate.  I 
suppose  you  think  that's  perfectly  fair  and 
right  and  just.  Naturally,  you  would." 

In  his  present  mood,  Henry  was  immune  to 
astonishment.  "I  don't  believe  it's  up  to  me 
to  criticize  Uncle  John,  whatever  he  did. ' ' 

"Not  under  the  circumstances,  no.  You've 
got  some  piece  of  property — I  don 't  know  what 
it  is;  he  didn't  tell  me;  7'm  only  his  sister — 
and  he's  fixed  things  so  it's  just  a  gamble  for 
you.  You're  going  to  do  the  gambling;  and  I 
sit  back  and  fold  my  hands  and  wait  a  year  to 
see  whether  you  get  everything,  or  I  do.  Even 
this  house." 

"What's  that?" 

She  made  a  deprecating  gesture.  "Oh,  yes, 
if  you  aren't  a  good  enough  gambler,  then  I 


52  E  0  P  E 

come  into  everything.  It  puts  me  in  such  a 
sweet  position,  doesn't  it?  So  comfortable  for 
me."  Her  smile  was  bitter;  she  was  recalling 
what  her  brother  had  said  to  her  at  lunch,  on 
that  final  day — that  he  wouldn't  listen  to  her, 
because  already  he  had  heard  the  worst  that  she 
had  to  say.  Originally,  as  she  knew,  he  had 
intended  to  bequeath  Henry  a  fourth  of  his 
property,  and  herself  the  remainder;  and  she 
knew  that  by  her  too  vigorous  indictment  of 
Henry  she  had  egged  her  brother  into  a  state 
of  mind  which,  regardless  of  the  cause  of  it, 
she  still  considered  to  be  unfathomable.  The 
memory  galled  her,  and  so  did  the  possibility 
of  Henry's  triumph.  "Well,"  she  said,  "I 
wish  you  every  happiness  and  success,  Henry. 
I  suppose  you  feel  in  your  conscience  you  de- 
serve it,  don't  you?" 

When  he  left  her,  he  was  aware  that  the  last 
tie  had  been  severed. 


His  friend  Bob  Standish  was  a  young  man 
who  in  the  past  ten  years  had  achieved  many 


E  0  P  E  53 

different  kinds  of  success  by  the  reason  that 
mere  acquaintances,  as  well  as  strangers,  in- 
variably underestimated  him.  For  one  thing, 
his  skin  was  so  tender,  his  eyes  so  blue  and  in- 
nocent, his  mouth  so  wide  and  sensitive,  his 
forehead  so  white  and  high,  that  he  gave  the 
impression  of  almost  childish  simplicity  and 
ingenuousness.  For  another  thing,  he  dressed 
with  such  meticulous  regard  for  the  fashion, 
and  he  moved  about  with  such  indolent  amia- 
bility, that  his  clothes  and  his  manners  dis- 
tracted attention  from  what  was  underneath. 

And  so,  at  college,  a  full  battalion  of  kindly 
sophomores  had  volunteered  to  teach  him 
poker,  and  couldn't  understand  why  the  profits 
went  not  to  the  teacher,  but  to  the  pupil.  Im- 
mature professors,  who  liked  to  score  off  idlers 
and  fat-brained  sons  of  plutocrats,  had  selected 
him  as  the  perfect  target,  and  some  of  them  had 
required  several  terms  to  realize  that  Stand- 
ish,  always  baby-eyed,  beau-attired  and  appar- 
ently dreaming  of  far  distant  things,  was 
never  lower  in  rank  than  the  top  twenty  of  his 
class.  Out  on  the  Field,  visiting  ends  and 
tackles,  meeting  him  for  the  first  tkne,  had 


54  E  0  P  E 

nearly  laughed  in  his  face,  and  prepared:  to 
slaughter  him,  only  to  discover,  with  alarm 
and  horror  which  steadily  increased  from  the 
first  whistle  to  the  last,  that  Standish  could  ex- 
plode his  muscles  with  such  a  burst  of  dy- 
namic energy  that  his  hundred  and  sixty 
pounds  felt  like  two  hundred  and  ten.  It  was 
equally  discouraging  to  learn,  from  breathless 
experience,  that  when  he  was  in  his  stri4e  he 
was  as  unpursueable  as  a  coyote;  and  that  he 
could  diagnose  the  other  fellow's  tactics  even 
before  the  other  fellow  had  quite  decided  what 
to  do  next. 

In  commerce,  he  had  merely  continued  the 
same  species  of  career ;  and  by  virtue  of  being 
thoroughly  depreciated,  and  even  pitied,  by 
his  customers,  he  had  risen  in  six  years  from 
the  grade  of  city  insurance  solicitor  to  that 
of  Mr.  Starkweather's  principal  assistant. 
And  now,  as  casually  as  he  had  ever  raked  in  a 
jack-pot  from  the  bewildered  sophomores,  he 
had  bought  the  Starkweather  business,  and  not 
on  a  shoestring,  either,  as  Mirabelle  had  sus- 
pected. 


E  O  P  E  55 

He  had  roomed  with  Henry  at  college;  he 
had  been  his  inseparable  companion,  out  of 
office  hours,  ever  since;  he  knew  him  too  well 
to  proffer  any  trite  condolence.  But  his  sym- 
pathy was  firm  and  warm  in  his  fingers  when 
he  shook  hands  and  Henry  got  the  message. 

''Thought  probably  you'd  rather  not  have 
me  at  the  train, "  said  Standish,  "so  I  didn't 
come.  Eight  or  wrong f ' ' 

"  Eight,  Bob  ...  Allow  smoking  in  your 
sanctum?" 

"Don't  allow  anybody  not  to  smoke.  "What 
are  you  doing — borrowing  or  offering?" 

Henry  glanced  at  Standish 's  brand.  "Nei- 
ther one.  Every  man  for  himself — and  you've 
got  vile  taste.  Well,  I  hear  you're  the  big 
boss  around  here.  Please,  mister,  gimme  a 
job?" 

"Nothing  I'd  like  better,"  said  Standish. 
"I've  got  just  the  thing  for  you.  Sit  over  on 
the  window-sill  and  be  a  lily.  Flowers  brighten 
up  an  office  so." 

"You  basely  misjudge  me.  Didn't  you  know 
I'm  going  to  work?" 


56  ROPE 

Standish's  eyes  were  round  and  guileless. 
1 1  See  any  sea-serpents  on  your  way  over?  I  've 
heard  there  are  such  things." 

"Fact,  though,  I  am.  And  you  know  it,  too. 
I'm  hoping  it's  here." 

His  friend  shook  his  head.  "Not  here, 
Henry. ' ' 

"No?" 

' '  No,  and  I  'm  sorry.  I  'd  make  you  clean  ink- 
wells and  say  'sir,'  and  you'd  get  to  be  almost 
as  democratic  as  I  am.  .  .  .  Haven't  you  seen 
Archer  ? ' ' 

"Not  yet." 

"Why  not?" 

'  *  Oh,  just  squeamish,  I  suppose.  You  sort  of 
hate  to  think  of  the — cash  end  of  it." 

"That's  right,  too.  But  as  long  as  you're  in 
the  building,  you  'd  better  drop  in  there.  From 
all  the  talk  there  is,  you've  picked  up  a  mys- 
tery. ' ' 

"Mystery?    In  what  way?" 

"Not  for  me  to  say.  Go  find  out.  And  say — 
you  and  Anna  come  and  dine  with  me  tonight, 
will  you?  I  just  want  to  have  you  all  to  myself. 
Mind?" 


ROPE  57 

"Not  noticeably." 

"Good.  Seven  o'clock.  Now  get  out  of  here 
and  <see  Archer.  'Come  back  afterwards,  if  you 
want  to;  but  do  that  first/' 

As  if  from  pressure  of  business,  he  projected 
Harry  into  the  corridor ;  and  then,  meditatively, 
he  returned  to  his  desk.  Young  Mr.  Standish 
had  watched  his  employer  very  closely,  during 
those  last  few  days,  and  in  witnessing  Mr. 
Starkweather's  will,  he  had  sensed,  intuitively, 
that  it  contained  a  stick  of  dynamite  for  Henry. 


Mr.  Archer,  who  had  known  Henry  since  the 
Fauntleroy  days,  greeted  him  with  the  proper 
mixture  of  repression  and  cordiality.  "But 
I'm  afraid,"  owned  Mr.  Archer,  "I'm  afraid 
you're  going  to  be  a  little  disappointed." 

Henry  shook  his  head.  "Then  you've  sized 
me  up  all  wrong, ' '  he  said,  much  subdued.  '  *  Be- 
cause no  matter  what  I  get,  I'm  going  to  be  sat- 
isfied that  Uncle  John  wanted  me  to  have  it. 
Besides,  I've  apparently  got  to  hump  myself,  or 
I  don't  get  anything  at  all.  Aunt  Mirabelle 


58  E  0  P  E 

gave  me  some  idea  of  it — I'd  thought  it  was 
probably  an  interest  in  the  business,  but  Bob 
Standish  says  it  isn't.'* 

4 'No,  it's  a  building.  361  Main  Street.  But 
it's  rather  more  than  a  mere  building;  it  is  a 
business.  It's  leased  until  next  Monday;  after 
that  it's  yours  to  operate.  The  deed's  recorded 
now.  It's  yours  outright.  Did  your  aunt  tell 
you  what  the  conditions  are  ! ' ' 

"  All  or  nothing  !" 

"Yes.  Oh,  he  made  a  separate  provision  for 
Miss  Starkweather ;  she  '11  never  go  hungry ;  but 
the  bulk  of  the  estate  depends  on  what  you  do 
with  the  business  in  the  next  year.  And  strictly 
between  ourselves,  your  uncle  expected  you  to 
finish  with  a  bit  to  spare. " 

"I  know  this  much;  if  it's  anything  he  doped 
out  for  me,  it's  an  even  bet.  It's  to  make  ten 
thousand  dollars!" 

"Yes,  and  without  any  outside  help  except 
straight  commercial  loans — if  you  can  get  'em. 
No  favours  from  anybody,  and  no  free  keep 
from  your  families.'* 

"What  building  is  it,  Mr.  Archer!" 

The    lawyer   paused   to    wipe   his    glasses. 


K  0  P  E  59 

"It's  one  your  uncle  took  over  on  a  mortgage 
last  winter.  .  .  .  You  see,  Henry,  he'd  figured 
out  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  you,  and  it 
would  have  been  this  same  thing  even  if  he'd 
lived.  He  picked  out  what  he  thought  would  do- 
yen the  most  good — get  you  in  touch  with 
different  people — break  down  some  of  your  (ex- 
cuse me  for  being  blunt)  class  prejudice — teach 
you  how  many  dimes  there  are  in  a  dollar. 
And  for  that  reason  he  expressly  stipulated 
that  you've  got  to  keep  your  own  books. 
That'll  give  you  more  of  a  respect  for  money 
than  anything  else  would,  I  guess." 

"Keep  my  own  books?" 

"That's  the  way  Mr.  Starkweather  began — 
only  in  his  case,  he  kept  somebody  else 's.  But 
I  warned  you  to  expect  something  out  of  the 
ordinary." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Henry.  "I  was  all  set  for 
some  kind  of  a  low-brow  job.  What  is  it — a 
garage  1 ' ' 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  think  a  garage  is  fash- 
ionable, compared  with  it." 

Henry  looked  serious.  "361  Main?  I  don't 
seem  to — What  on  earth  is  it,  Mr.  Archer?" 


60  EOPE 

"Go  down  and  look  at  it.  Only  don't  be 
shocked,  Henry ;  because  it 's  exactly  what  he  'd 
have  given  you  to  do,  anyway.  And  then  let 
me  know  what  your  plans  are,  will  you?  By 
the  way — have  you  any  money  of  your  own  ? ' ' 

Henry  looked  pained.  "I'm  down  to  a 
couple  of  hundred.  Why?" 

"Then  you'd  better  not  waste  any  time.  Go 
on  down  and  look  it  over  this  morning,  and  let 
me  know. ' ' 

"Why— let  you  know  what?" 

"Whether  you're  going  to  take  the  dare." 

Henry's  lips  twitched.  "Nobody  ever  beat 
me  by  default  yet,  Mr.  Archer." 

"Just  the  same,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  know 
definitely — won't  you!  Of  course,  if  you 
shouldn't  feel  inclined  to  go  ahead  on  your 
uncle's  plan — and  that  would  disappoint  me — 
you  could  simply  sell  out.  I  hope  you  won't, 
though.  I  hope  very  much  indeed  that  you 
won't.  But — go  look  at  it.  And  one  last 
thing,  Henry;  your  uncle  put  the  thing  in  this 
shape  so  that  too  many  people  wouldn't  be  gos- 
siping about  it.  I  mean,  if  you  and  your  aunt 


ROPE  61 

don't  tell — nobody  will.    That's  all — but  let  me 
know. ' ' 

Obediently,  Henry  proceeded  down  Main 
Street  to  the  300  block.  His  curiosity  was 
active,  but  he  was  warning  himself  to  be  on 
guard,  for  his  uncle's  sentences,  although  in- 
variably fair  and  invariably  appropriate,  were 
also  founded  on  a  solid  base  of  humour  and  sur- 
prise. Henry  remembered  what  Mr.  Stark- 
weather had  said  about  coming  home  to  eat 
crow,  and  what  Mr.  Archer  had  said  about  the 
comparative  aristocracy  of  a  garage,  and  he 
prepared  himself  for  a  thunderstroke,  and  got  a 
laugh  ready.  That  book-keeping  provision  was 
really  clever;  Uncle  John  had  palpably  framed 
it  up  to  keep  Henry  on  the  job.  But  Henry 
would  outwit  the  provision.  A  few  lessons  in  a 
commercial-school,  a  modern  card-system,  and 
he  could  handle  the  books  of  any  small  business 
in  no  time  at  all,  as  per  the  magazine  advertise- 
ments. Of  course,  the  crow  and  the  garage 
were  merely  symbols;  but  whatever  the 
business  might  be,  and  however  distasteful, 
there  was  only  a  year  of  it,  and  after  that  (so 


62  E  0  P  E 

confident  was  Henry)  there  was  a  lifetime  of 
luxury.  He  was  rather  glad  that  his  penance 
came  first;  it  would  serve  to  make  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  wealth  so  much  more  zestful.  He 
should  always  feel  as  though  he  had  worked  for 
it,  instead  of  having  it  handed  out  to  him  on  a 
platter,  regardless  of  his  personal  deserts. 
Yes,  he  would  work  faithfully,  and  because  the 
task  would  be  within  his  capabilities,  (for  Mr. 
Starkweather  was  sane  and  practical,  and  Mr. 
Archer  had  prophesied  a  finish  with  something 
to  spare)  he  would  end  his  probation  in  a  blaze 
of  glory,  and  Anna  would  be  proud  of  him, 
Judge  Barklay  would  approve  of  him,  and  Aunt 
Mirabelle  would  have  to  revise  her  estimate  of 
him.  Altogether,  it  was  a  fine  arrangement, 
provided  that  his  business,  whatever  it  was, 
wouldn't  entirely  prevent  him  from  keeping  up 
with  the  procession,  socially,  and  playing 
enough  golf  to  hold  his  present  form. 

He  had  passed  331  and  341  and  351  and  his 
heart  began  to  beat  more  rapidly.  This  was 
almost  as  exciting  as  a  Christmas  stocking  in 
the  Fauntleroy  days.  His  eyes  were  searching 


ROPE  63 

among  the  numbers;  there  was  a  four-story 
office  building  (335)  and  an  automobile  agency 
(339)  .  .  .  and  next  to  that — .  .  .  .  Henry 
halted,  and  the  laugh  dried  up  in  his  throat. 
He  had  been  prepared  for  anything  but  the 
reality.  The  ark  of  his  fortunes  was  a  shabby 
little  motion-picture  theatre. 

Gasping,  he  looked  up  again  at  the  number, 
and  when  he  realized  that  he  had  made  no  mis- 
take, his  knees  turned  to  gelatine,  and  he  stood 
staring,  fascinated,  numbed.  His  eyes  wan- 
dered blankly  from  the  crumbling  ticket-booth 
to  the  unkempt  lobby  and  back  to  the  lurid  bill- 
ing— the  current  attraction  was  a  seven-reel 
thriller  entitled  "What  He  Least  Expected," 
but  Henry  missed  the  parallel.  With  trembling 
fingers  he  produced  a  cigarette,  but  in  his  daze 
he  blew  out  two  matches  in  succession.  He 
crushed  the  cigarette  in  his  palm,  and  moved  a 
few  steps  towards  the  lobby.  Great  Heaven, 
was  it  possible  that  John  Starkweather  had  con- 
demmed  Henry  the  fashionable,  Henry  the 
clubable,  Henry  the  exclusive  to  a  year  of  this? 
Was  this  his  punishment  for  the  past?  Was 


64  ROPE 

this  the  price  of  his  future?  This  picayune 
sordidness,  and  vulgarity  and  decay!  Evi- 
dently, it  was  so  intended,  and  so  ordered. 

His  power  of  reason  was  almost  atrophied. 
He  struggled  to  understand  his  uncle's  pur- 
pose; his  uncle's  logic.  To  break  down  his 
class  prejudice,  and  teach  him  the  dimes  in  a 
dollar,  and  put  him  on  the  level  of  a  working- 
man?  All  that  could  have  been  accomplished 
by  far  less  drastic  methods.  It  could  have  been 
accomplished  by  a  tour  of  duty  with  Bob.  To 
be  sure,  Mr.  Starkweather  had  promised  him 
the  meanest  job  in  the  directory,  but  Henry  had 
put  it  down  as  a  figure  of  speech.  Now,  he  was 
faced  with  the  literal  interpretation  of  it,  and 
ahead  of  him  there  was  a  year  of  trial,  and  then 
all  or  nothing. 

He  succeeded  in  lighting  a  fresh  cigarette, 
but  he  couldn't  taste  it.  Previously  he  had 
paid  his  forfeits  with  the  best  of  good-nature, 
but  his  previous  forfeits  hadn't  obliged  him  to 
declass  himself.  They  hadn  't  involved  his  wife. 
He  hadn't  married  Anna  to  drag  her  down  to 
this.  It  would  stand  them  in  a  social  pillory, 
targets  for  those  who  had  either  admired  them 


ROPE  65 

or  envied  them.  It  would  make  them  the  most 
conspicuous  pair  in  the  whole  community: 
older  people  would  point  to  them  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  justice  visited  on  blind  youth,  and  would 
chuckle  to  observe  Henry  in  the  process  of  re- 
ceiving his  come-uppance :  the  younger  set 
would  quake  with  merriment  and  poor  jokes 
and  -sly  allusions  to  Henry's  ancient  grandeur. 
Even  Bob  Standish  would  have  to  hide  his 
amusement ;  why,  Bob  himself  had  made  society 
and  success  his  fetiches.  And  Anna — Anna 
who  was  so  ambitious  for  him — how  could  she 
endure  the  status  of  a  cheap  showman's  wife? 
And  even  if  she  had  been  willing  to  ally  him- 
self with  such  a  business,  how  could  he  con- 
ceivably make  ten  thousand  dollars  out  of  it  in  at, 
single  year?  Ten?  It  would  take  a  genius  to 
make  five.  An  inexperienced  man,  with  luck, 
might  make  two  or  three.  He  couldn't  afford 
to  hire  a  trained  man  to  manage  it  for  him :  the 
place  was  too  small  to  support  such  a  man,  and 
still  to  net  any  appreciable  profit.  Mr.  Stark- 
weather had  undoubtedly  foreseen  this  very 
fact — foreseen  that  Henry  couldn't  sit  back  as 
a  magnate,  and  pile  responsibility  on  a  paid 


66  E  O  P  E 

employe.  To  reach  his  quota,  Henry  would 
have  to  get  in  all  over,  and  act  as  his  own 
manager,  and  take  the  resulting  publicity  and 
the  social  isolation.  But  the  business  was  im- 
possible, the  quota  was  impossible,  the  entire 
project  from  first  to  last  was  unthinkable.  His 
uncle,  whether  by  accident  or  design,  had 
virtually  disowned  him.  There  was  no  other 
answer. 

His  laugh  came  back  to  him,  but  there  was  no 
hilarity  in  it.  It  was  merely  an  expression  of 
his  helplessness;  it  was  tragedy  turned  inside 
out.  Yet  he  felt  no  resentment  towards  his 
uncle,  but  rather  an  overwhelming,  pity.  He 
felt  no  resentment  towards  his  friend  Standish, 
who  had  bought  out  the  perfectly  respectable 
business  which  Mr.  Starkweather  might  so 
easily  have  left  to  Henry.  Mr.  Starkweather 
had  schemed  to  bring  about  a  certain  reaction, 
and  he  had  overplayed  his  hand.  Instead  of 
firing  Henry  with  a  new  ardour  for  success,  he 
had  convinced  him  of  the  futility  of  endeavour. 
He  had  set  a  standard  so  high,  and  chosen  a 
medium  so  low,  that  he  had  defeated  his  own 
object. 


ROPE  67 

The  next  step — why,  it  was  to  chart  his  life 
all  over  again.  It  was  to  dispose  of  this  ridicu- 
lous property,  and  begin  to  make  a  living  for 
Anna.  And  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  either, 
for  Henry 's  checking  balance  was  about  to  slide 
past  the  vanishing  point. 

He  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  turned  to 
meet  the  gravely  sympathetic  eyes  of  Mr. 
Theodore  Mix. 


Mr.  Mix  was  fresh  from  an  interview  with 
Miss  Mirabelle  Starkweather.  Her  acquaint- 
ance with  him  was  slight,  but  from  a  distance 
she  had  always  esteemed  him,  partly  for  his 
mature  good-looks,  and  partly  for  the  distin- 
guished manner  which  had  always  been  a  large 
fraction  of  his  stock-in-trade,  and  was  now  to  be 
listed  among  his  principal  assets.  Her  esteem, 
however,  applied  to  him  merely  as  an  indivi- 
dual, and  not  as  a  debtor. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  about  a  note,"  she  said, 
primly.  "A  five  thousand  dollar  demand  note 
you  gave  my  brother  four  months  ago.  He 


68  E  0  P  E 

endorsed  it  over  to  me,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you 
about  it. ' ' 

Mr.  Mix  allowed  his  mouth  to  widen  in  a 
smile  which  was  disarmingly  benevolent.  The 
horse  at  Bowie  had  proved  dark  indeed, — so 
dark  that  it  had  still  been  merged  with  the  back- 
ground when  the  winner  passed  the  judge's 
stand — and  thia  colour-test  had  cost  Mr.  Mix 
precisely  two  thousand  dollars.  Beyond  that, 
he  had  paid  off  a  few  of  his.  most  pressing 
creditors,  and  he  had  spent  a  peculiarly  care- 
free week  in  New  York  (where  he  had  also 
taken  a  trifling  flyer  in  cotton,  and  made  a  dis- 
astrous forced  landing)  so  that  there  was 
practically  nothing  but  his  smile  between  him- 
self and  bankruptcy.  Yet  Mr.  Mix  beamed, 
with  almost  ecclesiastical  poise,  upon  the 
holder  of  his  demand  note,  and  tried  her  with 
honey. 

"Ordinarily,  I'm  embarrassed  to  talk  busi- 
ness with  a  woman,"  said  Mr.  Mix.  "I'm  so 
conscious  of  the — what  shall  I  say? — of  a 
woman's  disadvantage  in  a  business  interview. 
But  in  your  case,  Miss  Starkweather,  when  your 


E  0  P  E  69 

executive  ability  is  so  well  known  and  so  uni- 
versally praised — " 

She  nodded,  and  took  it  without  discount,  but 
she  wasn't  distracted  from  her  purpose.  "I 
hope  it's  convenient  for  you  to  pay  it,  Mr. 
Mix." 

1  'If  it  weren't  convenient,"  said  Mr.  Mix, 
soothingly,  "I  should  make  it  convenient. 
When  the  sister  of  my  oldest  friend — a  man 
who  once  sat  at  the  same  desk  with  me,  when 
we  were  young  clerks  together — when  his 
sister  is  in  need  of  funds,  I — " 

"  'T  isn't  that,"  she  said,  quickly.  "I  want 
this  money  for  some  special  reason." 

He  inclined  his  head  slightly.  '  *  One  of  your 
favourite  charities,  I  have  no  doubt.  But  what- 
ever the  reason,  the  obligation  is  the  same. 
Now,  let's  see — I'll  have  to  sell  some  securities 
— when  must  you  have  it  I " 

"Next  Tuesday." 

Inwardly,  Mr.  Mix  was  startled,  but  out- 
wardly he  looked  grieved.  "Tuesday?  Now 
: — -that  is — wait  a  minute."  He  created  the 
impression  that  he  was  juggling  vast  affairs,  in 


70  E  0  P  E 

order  to  gratify  a  whim  of  his  old  friend's 
sister.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  wondering 
what  plausible  ex'cuse  he  could  give  without  re- 
vealing any  hint  of  the  truth.  "Is  Tuesday 
imperative  ? ' ' 

* '  Tuesday  by  ten  o  'clock  in  the  morning. ' ' 
His  face  cleared,  " You've  shared  a  secret 
with  me,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  and  although  he  spoke 
aloud,  his  attitude  was  as  though  he  were 
whispering.  "  Because  I  happen  to  know  that 
every  Tuesday  at  ten  o'clock  there's  a  meeting 
of  a — a  certain  organization  of  which  you  're  the 
illustrious  president.  Needless  to  say,  I  refer 
to  the  Ethical  Reform  League."  He  lowered 
his  voice.  "I  ask  your  pardon  for  the  intrusion 
of  anything  of  such  a  delicately  personal 
nature,  Miss  Starkweather,  but  I  must  tell  you 
that  when  a  person,  such  as  yourself,  even  in  the 
midst  of  inconsolable  sorrow,  can't  forget  that 
great  principles  and  great  institutions  can 
never  perish,  but  are  immortal,  and  go  on  for- 
ever— that's  true  nobility  of  character,  Miss 
Starkweather,  and  I  honour  you  for  it. ' ' 

She  touched  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 


HOPE  71 

1 1  Thank  you,  Mr.  Mix.  Yes,  I  intend  to  make  a 
contribution  to  our  League — in  memory  of  my 
brother.  You  're — familiar  with  our  League  f ' ' 

He  gestured  effectively.  " Familiar  with  it! 
You  might  as  well  ask  me  if  I'm  familiar  with 
the  Emancipation  Proclamation — the  Magna 
Charta."  And  this  was  accurate;  his  knowl- 
edge of  all  three  was  based  on  hearsay  evidence. 

"And  are  you  at  all  in  sympathy  with  it?" 

"My  dear  lady!  I  was  one  of  the  pioneer 
supporters  of  suffrage  in  this  region.  I — " 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  and  I  know  your  work  in 
the  Associated  Charities,  and  in  your  church, 
but — how  did  you  vote  on  prohibition?" 

He  side-stepped  with  great  agility.  "How 
would  any  man  of  my  calibre  vote?" 

"True,  true."     She  was  becoming  animated. 

"But  we've  tremendous  problems  yet  to 
solve.  .  .  .  Do  you  believe  in  enforcing  the 
laws,  Mr.  Mix?  The  Sunday  laws  especially?" 

Mr.  Mix  picked  up  his  cue,  and  gave  thanks 
for  the  diversion.  "Dear  lady,  I  am  a  citizen. 
As  a  citizen,  I  help  to  make  the  laws;  they're 
made  by  all  of  us  for  our  own  good.  Show  me 


72  E  O  P  E 

a  man  who  doesn't  believe  in  enforcing  the  laws, 
and  I  won't  argue  with  him — I  couldn't  count 
on  his  sincerity." 

1 ' It's  a  pleasure  to  talk  to  a  man  like  you," 
she  said.  "I  wonder  if  you  agree  with  our 
other  ideals.  Er — what  do  you  think  about 
dancing?" 

He  had  a  good  phrase  which  he  had  been 
saving  up  for  six  weeks.  "Dancing,"  he  said, 
"is  popular  because  it's  so  conspicuously  inno- 
cent, and  so  warmly  satisfactory  to  the  guilty. ' ' 

"Good!  Good!    How  about  tobacco!" 

This,  too,  he  side-stepped.  "It's  a  poison, 
so  the  doctors  say.  Who  am  I  to  put  any  opin- 
ion against  theirs  ! ' ' 

She  was  regarding  him  earnestly,  and  a  little 
perplexedly. 

"How  is  it,  when  in  spirit  you're  one  of  us, 
you've  never  joined  the  League!" 

"I-Pve  never  been  invited,"  said  Mr.  Mix, 
somewhat  taken  aback. 

"Then  /  invite  youy"  she  said,  promptly. 
"And  I  know  you'll  accept.  It's  men  like  you 
we  need — men  with  some  backbone ;  prominent, 
useful  citizens.  You  sit  right  there.  I've  got 


ROPE  73 

an  application  blank  in  my  desk.  Bead  it 
over  when  you  get  home,  and  sign  it  and  mail  it 
to  me." 

"I  appreciate  the  distinction  of  your  asking 
me,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  with  supreme  deference. 
"And  if  you  have  time,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
what  your  aims  are.  I  am  very  deeply  inter- 
ested." 

He  stayed  another  half  hour,  and  the  con- 
versation never  swerved  from  the  entertaining 
subject  of  reform.  Mr.  Mix  was  insufferably 
bored,  and  cumulatively  restless,  but  he  was 
convinced  that  he  was  making  headway,  so  that 
he  kept  his  mind  relentlessly  on  the  topic,  and 
dispensed  honey  by  the  shovelful.  When  he 
prepared  to  leave,  he  tested  out  his  conviction, 
and  reminded  her  gently:  "Now,  in  regard  to 
that  note — " 

Mirabelle  was  blinded  by  her  own  visionings, 
and  deafened  by  her  own  eloquence.  "Well, 
we  '11  have  to  take  that  up  again — But  you  come 
to  the  meeting  Tuesday,  anyhow.  And  here's 
one  of  our  pamphlets  for  you  to  look  at  in  the 
meantime. ' ' 

As  he  went  down  the  steps,  -she  was  watching 


74  ROPE 

him,  from  the  ambush  of  lace  window-curtains, 
and  she  was  saying  to  herself:  "Such  a  nice 
man — so  influential,  too.  .  .  .  Now  if  I  could 
get  him  persuaded  over — " 

Mr.  Mix,  strolling  nonchalantly  downtown, 
was  also  talking  to  himself,  and  his  conclusions 
would  have  astonished  her.  "What  I've  got  to 
do,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  thoughtfully,  "is  to  string 
the  old  dame  along  until  I  can  raise  five 
thousand  bucks.  But  where 's  it  coming 
from?" 

Then,  squarely  in  front  of  the  Orpheum 
Theatre,  he  met  Henry  Devereux. 


"Good-morning,  Henry,"  said  Mr.  Mix, 
soberly.  "First  time  I've  had  a  chance  to 
speak  to  you  since.  ..."  He  coughed  dis- 
creetly. "I  don't  believe  I  need  to  say  that  if 
there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you  at  any  time, 
all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  say  so." 

Privately,  Henry  had  always  considered  Mr. 
Mix  as  a  genial  poseur,  but  he  knew  that  Mr. 
Mix  belonged  to  the  Citizens  Club,  which  was 


ROPE  75 

the  local  standard,  and  that  for  thirty  years  he 
had  been  on  rather  intimate  business  relations 
with  Mr.  Starkweather.  This  was  sufficient 
recommendation  for  Henry,  in  the  swirl  of  his 
agitation,  to  loose  his  tongue. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  how  soon  I 
can  sell  this  overgrown  magic-lantern  outfit — 
and  what  I  can  get  for  it — and  where  I  can 
put  the  money  to  bring  in  the  biggest  income — 
and  where  I  can  get  a  good  job." 

Now  all  this  was  intended  to  be  purely  in  the 
nature  of  a  rhetorical  question:  for  naturally, 
if  Henry  decided  to  sell,  he  would  want  Bob 
Standish  to  handle  the  transaction  for  him, 
and  to  get  the  commission:  and  also,  if  Henry 
had  to  find  employment,  he  would  go  to  his 
friend,  and  be  sure  of  a  cordial  reception.  But 
Mr.  Mix  took  it  literally. 

Mr.  Mix  started,  and  his  memory  began  to  un- 
fold. It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  blurt 
out:  "And  lose  your  shot  at  the  estate?"  but 
he  restrained  himself.  He  wasn't  supposed  to 
know  the  circumstances,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
as  he  realized  with  a  thrill  of  relish,  he  was 
probably  the  only  outsider  who  did  know  the 


76  ROPE 

circumstances.  "Why,"  said  Mr.  Mix.  "Do 
you  own  the  Orpheum  ?  Well,  I  should  say  off- 
hand it's  worth  a  good  deal.  Twenty  thousand. 
The  land,  you  know:  the  building's  no  good." 

Henry  nodded  impatiently.  ' '  Yes,  but  who  'd 
buy  it?" 

"Well,  now,  about  that — of  course,  I'm  not  a 
real  estate  man — but  you  could  certainly  trade 
it." 

"What  for?" 

Mr.  Mix  caught  the  note  of  sincerity  in 
Henry's  voice,  and  Mr.  Mix  thought  rapidly. 
He  appeared  to  deliberate,  to  waver,  to  burn  his 
bridges.  "Well — say  for  a  third  interest  in 
Theodore  Mix  and  Company. ' ' 

Henry  stared.    "Are  you  serious?" 

Mr.  Mix  almost  fell  over  backwards.  "Why, 
yes.  It's  sudden,  but  .  .  .  why,  yes.  I  could 
use  more  capital,  and  I  want  a  crack  salesman. 
I  '11  trade — if  you  're  quick  on  the  trigger.  I  've 
got  two  or  three  people  interested  so  far,  but 
when  it's  you — " 

Henry  took  him-  by  the  arm.  ' '  Come  on  over 
to  the  Citizens  Club,  then,  and  we'll  talk  about 
it." 


CHAPTER  V 

WHEN  Henry  went  home  to  his  wife  and 
his  father-in-law,  he  was  confident  that 
he  had  a  very  fine  bargain ;  when  he  told  them 
what  he  had  heard  from  his  aunt  and  Mr. 
Archer,  what  he  had  seen  with  his  own  eyes,  and 
what  he  had  done  with  Mr.  Mix,  he  expected 
first,  sympathy,  and  afterwards,  unqualified  ap- 
proval. "Within  the  next  five  minutes,  however, 
Henry  was  sitting  limp  and  baffled ;  and  wishing 
that  he  had  Bob  Standish  to  support  him. 
Bob,  at  least,  would  understand. 

"Holy  Smoke!"  he  said,  weakly.  "I  didn't 
suppose  you  'd  take  it  like  that !  Why,  I — I  feel 
as  if  I'd  been  run  over  by  a  steam-roller  with 
Taf  tat  the  wheel!" 

Judge  Barklay  had  long  since  forgiven  his 
daughter,  but  he  hadn't  quite  forgiven  Henry. 
"Do  you  want  my  honest  opinion?  I  should 
say  you're  suffering  from  two  extreme  causes 
— exaggerated  ego  and  cold  feet. ' ' 

77 


78  E  0  P  E 

Henry  flushed.  He  had  the  most  profound 
respect  for  Judge  Barklay — a  man  who  had 
preferred  to  be  a  city  magistrate,  and  to  be 
known  throughout  the  whole  state  for  his 
wisdom  and  humanity,  instead  of  keeping  up 
his  law  practice,  at  five  times  the  income — and 
Henry,  like  every  one  else,  valued  the  Judge's 
opinions.  "You  don't  mean  you  think  I'd  run 
the  miserable  little  peanut-stand,  do  you  ?  And 
keep  books  on  it  as  if  it  had  been  the  Federal 
Reserve  Bank?" 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  the  Judge,  "that  both 
of  us  would  rather  have  you  run  a  peanut-stand 
than — I  'm  using  your  own  analogy — than  spend 
your  whole  life  eating  peanuts.  Why,  Henry, 
your  uncle  wanted  you  to  be  shocked — wanted 
you  to  be  mad  enough  to  stand  up  on  your  hind 
legs  and  fight." 

Henry  looked  at  his  wife.  "What  are  you 
going  to  suggest  t  Hire  a  snake-charmer  and  a 
wild-man-from-Borneo  and  an  infant  pachy- 
derm and  a  royal  ring-tailed  gyasticutus,  and 
pull  off  a  side-show  after  the  main  tent's 
closed?" 


E  0  P  E  79 

"Oh,  Henry!  Can't  you  see  what  a  lark  it 
would  be!" 

"Lark?"  he  repeated,  hazily.  "Lark? 
You've  got  the  wrong  bird.  It's  crow." 

"No,  but  Henry  dear,  you  aren't  going  to  be 
a  quitter,  are  you  1 ' ' 

"Wife  of  my  bosom,  do  you  realize  what 
you're  talking  about?  It  would  cost  a 
thousand  dollars  just  to  make  the  place  clean. 
It'll  cost  three  or  four  more  to  make  it  at- 
tractive enough  to  get  anybody  inside  of  it. 
And  I  haven't  got  the  price." 

"What's  the  matter  with  a  mortgage?"  de- 
manded the  Judge.  "And  you've  got  a  car, 
haven't  you?  You've  got  a  saddle-horse. 
You've  got  all  kinds  of  junk  you  can  turn  into 
money. ' ' 

"On  a  wild  gamble?  Why,  Anna,  we 
couldn't  stay  on  here  with  the  Judge — that 
would  be  getting  help  I  'm  not  allowed  to  have — 
we  'd  have  to  go  live  in  some  cheap  apartment ; 
we  couldn't  even  have  a  maid  for  awhile;  we 
couldn't  entertain  anybody;  we  couldn't 
have  any  outside  pleasures;  I'd  have  to  work 


80  ROPE 

like  a  dog;  you  know  what  the  crowd  on  the 
hill  would  say — and  then  I'm  beaten  before 
I  start  anyway.  Quitter!  You  wouldn't  call  a 
man  a  quitter  if  he  stayed  out  of  a  hurdle  race 
because  he'd  broken  a  leg,  would  you?" 

"Well,"  said  Anna,  "I'm  willing  to  live  in 
such  a  cheap  apartment  that  the  landlord  calls 
it  a  flat.  And  you  can't  get  any  servants  these 
days;  there  aren't  any.  And  who  cares  about 
entertaining?  And  for  outside  pleasures,  why 
couldn't  we  go  to  the  Orpheum?"  They  all 
laughed,  but  Anna  was  the  first  to  stop.  "I'll 
work  just  as  hard  as  you  will,  Henry.  I  '11  peel 
potatoes  and  wash  the  sink — '  She  glanced, 
ruefully,  at  her  hands — "and  if  it'll  help  you, 
I — I'd  sell  tickets  or  be  an  usher  or  play  the 
piano.  Why,  Henry,  it  would  be  a  circus — and 
we  wouldn  't  need  any  snake-charmers,  either. ' ' 

" And  an  education,"  said  Judge  Barklay. 

"And  a  gold-mine  for  us — in  just  one  little 
year.  We  could  do  it;  I  know  we  could." 

"And  if  the  stupid  fool  who's  had  it  this  last 
year  could  make  money  out  of  it,"  added  the 
Judge,  "and  you  used  any  intelligence  on  it, 
you'd  come  out  ahead.  John  made  up  his 


E  0  P  E  81 

figures  very  carefully.  That 's  the  kind  of  man 
he  was." 

Henry  stared  at  them  alternately.  "But  if 
I  did  fall  down—" 

"Henry!"  The  Judge  was  using  a  profes- 
sional gesture.  "What  do  you  suppose  your 
time  is  worth,  at  its  present  market  value? 
Don't  you  think  you  can  afford  to  risk  a  year  of 
it  against  half  a  million  dollars?" 

"But  when  I've  practically  closed  with 
Mix—" 

"Sign  any  agreement?" 

"No,  he's  having  one  typed." 

The  judge  breathed  in  relief.  ''You're 
lucky.  You'd  lose  money  if  you  took  a  third 
interest  for  a  gift,  and  if  you  took  all  of  it  as  a 
gift  you'd  lose  three  times  as  much.  Because 
you'd  have  to  assume  your  share  of  his 
liabilities.  People  think  he's  got  money,  but 
he  hasn't;  he's  broke.  He  must  have  picked 
you  for  a  life  preserver." 

Henry's  jaw  dropped.  "What  makes  you 
think  so?" 

' '  I  don 't  think  so ;  I  know  so.  Oh,  he 's  pretty 
shifty  on  his  feet,  and  he's  got  a  good  many 


82  ROPE 

people  hoodwinked — your  uncle  always  gave 
him  too  much  credit,  incidentally — but  his  New 
York  correspondents  happened  to  be  clients  of 
mine  when  I  was  practising  law,  and  they've 
both  asked  me  about  him  and  told  me  about  him, 
inside  of  the  last  six  weeks." 

Henry  sat  unblinking  "Is  that — a  fact!" 
"And  if  you  wanted  to  sell  out,"  continued 
the  Judge,  with  a  trifle  of  asperity,  "why  on 
earth  didn't  you  go  to  Bob  Standish?  Why 
didn't  you  go  to  an  expert?  And  why  didn't 
you  have  an  audit  made  of  Mix's  company — 
why  didn't  you  get  a  little  information — why 
didn't  you  know  what  you  were  buying?  Oh, 
it  isn  't  too  late,  if  you  haven 't  signed  anything, 
but — Henry,  it  looks  to  me  as  if  you  need  a 
guardian!" 

At  the  sight  of  his  face,  Anna  went  over  to 
him,  and  perched  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
"That's  enough,  Dad.  .  .  .  7'm  his  guardian; 
aren't  I,  dear?  And  he's  just  upset  and  dizzy 
and  I  don't  blame  him  a  bit.  We  won't  say 
another  word  about  it ;  we  Ve  told  him  what  we 
think ;  and  tonight  he  can  have  a  long  talk  with 


E  0  P  E  83 

Bob.  You'd  want  to  do  that,  wouldn't  you, 
Henry?  Of  course  you  would.  You  wish 
you'd  done  it  before.  You're  feeling  awfully 
ashamed  of  yourself  for  being  so  hasty.  And 
snobbish.  I  know  you. ' ' 

Henry  looked  across  at  the  Judge.  "  Might 
as  well  have  my  brains  where  my  hair  is, 
mightn't  I?  She  sees  it  just  as  easy.  .  .  .  All 
right;  we'll  let  the  whole  thing  ride  'till  I've 
seen  Bob." 

His  friend  Standish,  gazing  with  childlike 
solemnity  out  of  his  big  blue  eyes,  listened  to 
both  sides  of  the  story,  and  to  Henry's  miscal- 
culation, at  no  time  during  the  recital  did  he 
laugh  uproariously,  or  exclaim  compassion- 
ately, or  indicate  that  he  shared  any  of  Henry 's 
conclusions : 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  " people  might  giggle  a 
bit.  But  they  always  giggle  at  a  man's  first 
shot  at  business,  anyway.  Like  his  first  pair 
of  long  trousers.  It's  done.  But  how  many 
times  will  they  do  it?  A  thousand?  Ten 
thousand?  A  hundred  thousand?  At  maybe 
seven  dollars  a  giggle?  For  less  than  that,  I'd 


84  E  O  P  E 

be  a  comedian.    I'd  be  a  contortionist.    I'd  be 
a   pie-thrower.    Henry,   old   rubbish,   you   do 
what  they  tell  you  to. ' ' 
*  *  Would  you  do  it  if  you  were  in  my  place  ? ' ' 
"  Would  I  lie  down  like  a  yellow  dog,  and  let 
people  say  I  hadn't  sand  enough  to  stop  a  wrist- 
watch?" 

"I  know,  but  Bob — the  Orpheum!" 
"I  know,  but  Henry — don't  you  sort  of  owe 
it  to  Mr.  Starkweather?    You  wouldn't  have 
put  on  this  milk-fed  expression  if  he  'd  soaked  it 
to  you  himself,  would  you  ? ' ' 

At  this  precise  instant,  Henry  was  required 
on  the  telephone.  It  was  his  Aunt  Mirabelle; 
and  even  if  he  had  been  dining  with  royalty,  she 
would  still  have  called  him — if  she  could  have 
got  the  address. 

11  Henry,"  she  said  acidly.  "I've  just  found 
out  what  kind  of  a  building  it  was  your  uncle 
deeded  you.  Theodore  Mix  told  me.  I  didn't 
•know  your  uncle  was  ever  messed  up  in  that 
kind  of  a  thing.  He  never  told  me.  Good 
reason  he  didn't,  too.  I  certainly  hope  you 
aren't  going  to  spread  this  news  around  town, 
Henry — it's  scandalous  enough  to  have  it  in 


E  0  P  E  85 

the  family,  even.  Of  all  the  hellish  influences 
we've  got  to  contend  with  in  this  day  and 
generation — " 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  "it  isn't  any  of  it  my 
fault,  is  it?" 

"That  remains  to  be  seen.  Are  you  going 
to  run  that — dive  ? ' ' 

*  '  Why,— I  don 't  know.    If  I  didn  't— ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,  you're  probably  thinking  how 
selfish  I  am.  You  wouldn't  recognize  a  pure 
motive  if  you  met  one  in  the  street.  But  to 
think  of  a  Devereux — almost  the  same  thing  as 
a  Starkweather — " 

"What's  your  idea?  To  have  me  be  a  jolly 
little  martyr?" 

"There's  this  much  to  say,  Henry — at  least 
I'd  put  John's  money  to  a  nobler  use  than  you 
ever  would." 

Henry  grimaced.     "Your  League?" 

"Yes,  what  else?" 

He  was  an  impulsive  young  man,  and  some- 
times he  made  up  his  mind  by  contraries.  "I 
wouldn't  count  too  much  on  it,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully. ' '  I  might  astonish  you. ' ' 

"You — Henry  Devereux !    Am  I  going  to  see 


86  ROPE 

my  own  sister's  son  in  a  polluted  enterprise 
like—" 

' '  You  're  going  to  see  your  own  grandfather 's 
great-grandson  make  P.  T.  Barnum  look  a  Kick- 
apoo  medicine  man — if  necessary,"  said  Henry. 
"Only  don't  you  worry  about  any  pollution. 
That 's  where  I  draw  the  line.  I  'm  not  going  to 
stage  one  single  pollute." 
' '  You  are  going  to  operate  that  place  t ' ' 
"Why  certainly,"  said  Henry.  "And  speak- 
ing of  operations,  I've  got  a  hunch  the  patient's 
going  to  recover.  I've  just  been  holding  a 
clinic  .  .  .  Well — good-bye,  Aunt  Mirabelle." 
He  turned  back  to  his  wife  and  his  friend 
Standish.  "So  that's  settled,"  said  Henry, 
and  grinned,  a  trifle  apprehensively.  "We're 
off  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  .  .  .  Waiter,  where 's 
those  two  portions  of  crow  I  ordered  four 
months  ago?  The  service  in  this  place  is 
getting  something  rotten. '  * 


CHAPTER  VI 

ME.  THEODORE  MIX,  sprawled  in  his 
desk  chair,  gazed  with  funereal  gloom  at 
the  typewritten  agreement  which  lay  before 
him,  unsigned.  It  was  barely  twenty  minutes 
ago  that  Mr.  Mix  had  risen  to  welcome  the  man 
who  was  to  save  his  credit  and  his  reputation; 
but  during  those  twenty  minutes  Mr.  Mix,  who 
had  felt  that  he  was  sitting  on  top  of  the  world, 
had  been  unceremoniously  shot  off  into  space. 
His  creditors  surrounded  him,  (and  because 
they  were  small  creditors  they  were  inclined  to 
be  nasty),  he  owed  money  to  his  New  York 
correspondents,  whose  letters  were  becoming 
peremptory,  and  his  brokerage  business  was 
pounding  against  the  rocks.  Quietly,  over- 
night he  had  located  a  purchaser  for  the 
Orpheum,  and  as  soon  as  Henry's  name  had 
been  safe  on  the  dotted  line,  Mr.  Mix  would 
have  been  financed  for  many  months  ahead. 
And  then  came  Henry — and  Henry,  who  had 

87 


88  ROPE 

been  cast  for  the  part  of  the  lamb,  had  suddenly 
become  as  obstinate  as  a  donkey.  Mr.  Mix, 
gazing  at  that  agreement,  was  swept  by  im- 
potent rage  at  Henry,  and  he  took  the  document 
and  ripped  it  savagely  across  and  across,  and 
crumpled  it  in  both  his  hands,  and  jammed  it 
into  his  scrap-basket. 

For  the  moment,  he  subordinated  his 
personal  problems  to  his  wrath  at  Henry.  He 
charged  Henry  with  full  responsibility  for  this 
present  crisis;  for  if  Henry  had  simply  scrib- 
bled his  signature,  Mr.  Mix  would  have  made  a 
good  deal  of  money.  It  never  occurred  to  him 
that  in  the  same  transaction,  Henry  would  have 
changed  places  with  Mr.  Mix.  That  was 
Henry's  look-out.  And  damn  him,  he  had 
looked! 

"I'm  going  to  get  him  for  that,"  said  Mr. 
Mix,  half -aloud.  "I'm  going  to  get  him,  and 
get  him  good.  Jockeying  me  into  a  pocket! 
Conceited  young  ass!  And  I'd  have  been 
square  with  the  world,  and  paid  off  that  in- 
fernal note,  and  had  four  .  .  .  thousand  .  .  . 
dollars  left  over."  His  lips  made  a  straight 
line.  "And  he'd  have  brought  fifty  thousand 


E  0  P  E  89 

dollars'  worth  of  business  into  this  office — he'd 
have  had  to — he'd  have  had  to  hold  up  his 
friends — to  protect  his  ante.  Yes,  sir,  I'm  go- 
ing to  get  him  good." 

Mr.  Mix  sat -up,  and  emitted  a  short,  mirth- 
less laugh.  He  frowned  thoughtfully:  and 
then,  after  a  little  search,  he  examined  the 
pamphlet  which  Mirabelle  had  given  him,  and 
skimmed  through  the  pages  until  he  came  to  the 
paragraph  he  had  in  mind.  Enforcement  of 
the  Sunday  ordinances  .  .  .  hm!  .  .  .  present 
ordinance  seems  to  prohibit  Sunday  theatrical 
performances  of  all  kinds,  but  city  administra- 
tions have  always  been  lax.  Want  the  law  on 
the  books,  don't  dare  to  repeal  it,  but  don't 
care  to  enforce  it. 

Mr.  Mix  sat  back  and  pondered.  He  knew 
enough  about  the  motion-picture  business  to 
realize  that  the  Sunday  performances  made  up 
the  backbone  of  the  week.  He  knew  enough 
about  the  Orpheum  to  know  that  Henry's  quota, 
which  under  normal  conditions  would  require 
only  diligence,  and  initiative,  and  originality  to 
reach,  would  be  literally  impossible  if  Sundays 
were  taken  from  the  schedule.  The  League's 


90  R  0  FE 

blue-law  campaign,  if  it  proved  successful, 
would  make  Henry  Devereux  even  bluer  than 
Mr.  Mix.  * '  Three  rousing  cheers  for  reform ! ' ' 
said  Mr.  Mix,  and  grinned  at  the  pamphlet. 

Another  brilliant  thought  infected  him.  He 
had  long  since  passed  the  stage  in  which  women 
were  a  mystery  to  him:  he  had  long  since 
realized  that  unless  a  man's  passions  inter- 
vene, there  is  nothing  more  mysterious  about 
women  than  about  men.  It  was  all  humbug — 
all  this  mummery  about  intuitions  and  unerring 
perception  and  inscrutability.  "Women  are  all 
alike — all  human — all  susceptible  to  sheer, 
blatant  flattery.  The  only  difference  in  women 
is  in  the  particular  brand  of  flattery  to  which, 
as  individuals,  they  react. 

Take  Miss  Starkweather:  he  had  seen  that  if 
he  fed  her  vanity  unsparingly — not  her  physical 
vanity,  but  her  pride  in  her  own  soul,  and  in  her 
League  presidency — she  blazed  up  into  a  flame 
which  consumed  even  her  purpose  in  causing 
the  interview.  Once  already,  by  no  remarkable 
effort,  he  had  been  able  to  divert  her  attention ; 
and  it  was  now  imperative  for  him  to  keep  it 
diverted  until  he  had  raised  five  thousand 


E  0  P  E  91 

dollars.  And  if  she  were  so  susceptible,  why 
shouldn't  Mr.  Mix  venture  a  trifle  further?  He 
knew  that  she  regarded  him  as  an  important 
man ;  why  shouldn  't  he  let  himself  be  won  over, 
slowly  and  by  her  influence  alone,  to  higher 
things?  Stopping,  of  course,  just  short  of  ac- 
tually becoming  a  League  partisan?  Why 
shouldn 't  he  feed  her  fat  with  ethics  and  adula- 
tion, until  she  were  more  anxious  for  his  co- 
operation than  for  his  money?  If  he  couldn't 
play  hide-and-seek  for  six  months, — if  he 
couldn't  turn  her  head  so  far  that  she  couldn't 
bear  to  press  him  for  payment — he  wasn't  the 
strategist  he  believed  himself  to  be.  But  in 
the  meantime,  where  was  he  to  get  the  money  to 
live  on?  Still,  Mirabelle  came  first. 

On  Sunday,  he  fortified  himself  from  his  mea- 
gre supply  of  contraband,  ate  two  large  cloves, 
and  went  formally  to  call  on  her.  He  remained 
an  hour,  and  by  exercise  of  the  most  finished 
diplomacy,  he  succeeded  in  building  up  the  situ- 
ation exactly  as  he  had  planned  it.  The  note 
hadn't  been  mentioned;  the  League  hadn't  been 
given  a  breathing-space;  and  Mirabelle  was 
pleading  with  him  to  see  the  light,  and  join  the 


92  E  0  P  E 

crusade.    Finally,  she  leaned  forward  and  put 
her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Two  weeks  ago,"  she  said,  "I  told  the 
League  I  was  going  to  give  it  a  real  surprise 
this  next  Tuesday.  What  I  meant  was  money. 
The  money  for  that  note.  But  I'd  hate  to  have 
you  sell  any  securities  when  they're  down  so 
low.  And  besides,  anybody  can  give  money — 
just  money.  What  we  need  most  is  men.  Let 
me  do  something  different.  You're  one  of  the 
big  men  here.  You  count  for  a  good  deal.  We 
want  you.  I  said  I'd  give  'em  a  surprise — let 
me  make  the  League  a  present  of  you."  She 
bestowed  upon  him  a  smile  which  was  a  star- 
tling combination  of  sharpness  and  appeal. 
"I'm  certainly  going  to  keep  my  promise,  Mr 
Mix.  I'm  going  to  give  'em  one  or  the  other 
— you  or  the  five  thousand.  Only  I  tell  you 
in  all  sincerity,  I'd  rather  it  would  be  you." 

Mr.  Mix  sat  up  with  a  jerk.  The  climax  had 
been  reached  six  months  too  soon.  "Dear 
lady—" 

"You  can't  refuse,"  she  went  on  with  an  em- 
phasis which  sobered  him.  "We  want  you  for 
an  officer,  and  a  director.  I've  taken  it  up  with 


E  0  P  E  93 

the  committee.  And  you  can't  refuse.  You 
believe  everything  we  believe.  Mr.  Mix,  look 
me  in  the  eye,  and  tell  me — if  you're  true  to 
yourself,  how  can  you  refuse!" 

"That  isn't  it,"  he  said,  truthfully  enough. 
"I — I  wouldn't  be  as  valuable  to  you  as  you 
think." 

"We'll  judge  of  that." 

He  knew  that  he  was  in  a  corner,  and  he 
hunted  desperately  for  an  opening.  "And- — in 
any  event,  I  couldn't  become  an  officer,  or  even 
a  director.  I — " 

"Why  not,  pray?" 

"I  haven't  the  time,  for  one  thing,  nor  the 
experience  in — " 

She  swept  away  his  objections  with  a  stiff 
gesture.  "You're  modest,  and  it's  becoming. 
But  either  you  're  with  us  or  against  us :  there 's 
no  half-way  about  morals.  If  you're  with  us, 
you  ought  to  show  your  colours.  And  if  you 
are  with  us,  you'll  lead  us,  because  you're  a 
born  leader.  You  inspire.  You  instill.  And 
for  the  sake  of  the  common  welfare — "  She 
paused :  he  was  staring  at  her  as  if  hypnotized. 
"For  the  sake  of  the  city  and  the  state  and  the 


94  ROPE 

nation — "  His  eyes  were  wide,  and  filled  with 
a  light  which  deceived  her.  "For  the  sake  of 
civic  honour  and  decency  and  self-respect — " 

Mr.  Mix  cleared  his  throat.    "Yes,  but — " 

Again,  she  leaned  out  and  touched  his  arm. 
"Form?/ sake?" 

Mr.  Mix  recoiled  slightly.  ' '  For  your  sake ! ' ' 
he  muttered. 

"Yes,  for  mine.  The  sister  of  your  oldest 
friend." 

He  owed  her  five  thousand  dollars,  and  if  she 
demanded  payment,  he  was  a  bankrupt.  "Why 
does  it  mean  so  much  to  you  1 "  he  asked,  sparr- 
ing for  time. 

"It  would  be  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the 
League,  Mr.  Mix." 

"You  spoke  about  leadership.  No  one  can 
hope  to  replace  yourself." 

"Thank  you — I  know  you  mean  it.  But  no 
woman  can  lead  a  campaign  such  as  the  one 
we're  just  starting.  It  takes  a  strong,  dominant 
man  who  knows  politics.  Of  course,  when  we  go 
after  dancing  and  cards  and  dress-reform,  I 
guess  I  can  do  all  right,  but  in  this  campaign — " 


ROPE  95 

"What  campaign  is  this,  Miss  Stark- 
weather?" 

' l  Sunday  enforcement. ' ' 

Mr.  Mix  pursed  his  lips.     " Really?" 

She  nodded.  "Were  going  to  concentrate  on 
one  thing  at  a  time.  That 's  first. ' ' 

"Close  all  the  theatres  and  everything?" 

"Tight!"  she  said,  and  the  word  was  like  the 
lash  of  a  whip.  "Tight  as  a  drum." 

Mr.  Mix  controlled  himself  rigidly.  "You'll 
have  to  pardon  my  seeming  indelicacy,  but — " 
He  coughed  behind  his  hand.  "That  might 
bring  about  a  very  unhappy  relationship  be- 
tween my  family  and  yours.  Had  you  thought 
of  it?" 

"Henry?  Humph!  Yes.  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
don't  propose  to  let  my  family  or  anybody  else's 
stand  in  the  way  of  my  principles.  Do  you? 
No.  If  Henry  stands  in  the  way,  he's  going  to 
get  run  over.  Mark  my  words. ' ' 

His  expression  was  wooden,  but  it  concealed  a 
thought  which  had  flashed  up,  spontaneously,  to 
dazzle  him.  In  spite  of  his  age  and  experience, 
Mr.  Mix  threatened  to  blush.  The  downfall  of 


96  E  O  P  E 

Henry  meant  the  elevation  of  Mirabelle.  Mr. 
Mix  himself  could  assist  in  swinging  the  bal- 
ance. And  he  couldn't  quite  destroy  a  picture 
of  Mirabelle,  walking  down  the  aisle  out  of  step 
to  the  wedding  march.  Her  arms  were  loaded 
with  exotic  flowers,  of  which  each  petal  was  a 
crisp  yellow  bank-bill.  He  wanted  to  laugh,  he 
wanted  to  snort  in  deprecation,  and  he  did 
neither.  He  was  too  busy  with  the  conscious- 
ness that  at  last  he  was  in  a  position  to  capital- 
ize his  information.  He  knew  what  nobody  else 
did,  outside  of  Henry  and  his  wife,  Mirabelle, 
Mr.  Archer  and  probably  Judge  Barklay  and  if 
he  flung  himself  into  the  League's  campaign, 
what  might  he  now  accomplish? 

He  looked  at  Mirabelle.  Her  eyes  betrayed 
her  admiration.  Mr.  Mix  drew  a  very  long 
breath,  and  in  the  space  of  ten  seconds  thought 
ahead  for  a  year.  The  League  was  ridiculously 
radical,  but  if  Mr.  Mix  were  appointed  to  direct 
it,  he  was  confident  that  he  could  keep  Mira- 
belle contented,  without  making  himself  too 
much  of  a  ludicrous  figure.  All  it  needed  was 
tact,  and  foresight.  "If  I  could  only  spare  the 


ROPE  97 

time  to  help  you — but  you  see,  this  is  my  dull 
season — I  have  to  work  twice  as  hard  as  usual 
to  make  an  honest  dollar — " 

"Would  you  accept  an  honorarium?" 

" Beg  pardon?" 

"If  you  took  charge  of  the  drive,  would  you 
accept  a  salary?  And  give  us  most  of  your 
time  ?  Say,  four  days  a  week  ? ' ' 

Once  more,  his  thoughts  raced  through  the 
year.  "Now,"  he  said,  presently,  "you  are 
making  it  hard  for  me  to  refuse." 

'  *  Only  that  ?    Haven 't  I  made  it  impossible  ? ' ' 

To  Mr.  Mix,  her  tone  was  almost  more  of  a 
challenge  than  an  invitation.  He  looked  at  her 
again;  and  at  last  he  nodded.  "I  think — you 
have." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "I've  always  re- 
spected you  as  a  man.  Now  I  greet  you  as  a 
comrade.  "We'll  make  this  city  a  place  where 
a  pure-minded  man  or  woman  won 't  be  ashamed 
to  live.  I  tell  you,  I  won't  be  satisfied  until 
we  reach  the  ideal!  And  prohibition  was  only 
one  tiny  move  in  advance,  and  we've  miles  to 
go.  I'm  glad  we're  going  the  rest  of  the  way 


98  EOPE 

together.  And  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  in  the 
least  if  you  came  out  of  it  Mayor.  That's  my 
idea." 

Mr.  Mix,  with  the  faint  aroma  of  cloves  in 
his  nostrils,  backed  away. 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  dream  of  that  .  .  ."  he  said. 
"But  I  feel  as  if  I'd  taken  one  of  the  most  sig- 
nificant steps  of  my  whole  life.  I — I  think  I'd 
better  say  good  afternoon,  Miss  Starkweather. 
I  want  to  be  alone — and  meditate.  You  under- 
stand?" 

"Like  Galahad,"  she  murmured. 

Mr.  Mix  looked  puzzled ;  he  thought  she  had  a 
cold.  But  he  said  no  more ;  he  went  home  to  his 
bachelor  apartment,  and  after  he  had  helped 
himself  to  three  full  fingers  of  meditation,  to- 
gether with  a  little  seltzer,  he  smiled  faintly, 
and  told  himself  that  there  was  no  use  in  de- 
bating the  point — a  man  with  brains  is  predes- 
tined to  make  progress.  But  he  couldn't  help 
reflecting  that  now,  more  than  ever,  if  any  echo 
of  his  New  York  escapades,  or  any  rumour  of 
his  guarded  habits  got  to  Mirabelle's  ears — or, 
for  that  matter,  to  anybody's  ears  at  all — his 
dreams  would  float  away  in  vapour.  Perhaps  it 


E  0  P  E  99 

would  be  wise  to  explain  to  Mirabelle  that  he 
had  once  been  a  sinner.  She  would  probably 
forgive  him,  and  appreciate  him  all  the  more. 
Women  do.  ...  It  was  curious  that  she  had 
mentioned  him  as  a  possible  Mayor.  It  had 
been  his  dearest  ambition.  He  wondered  if, 
with  his  present  reputation,  and  then  with  the 
League  behind  him,  there  were  a  ghost  of  a 
chance.  , 


CHAPTER  VII 

THERE  was  probably  no  power  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  which  could  have  driven 
Henry  Devereux  to  the  operation  of  a  picture 
theatre,  strictly  as  a  business  venture ;  but  when 
he  once  got  it  into  his  head  that  the  Orpheum 
wasn't  so  much  a  business  as  a  sporting  propo- 
sition, he  couldn't  have  been  stopped  by  any- 
thing short  of  an  injunction.  Immediately,  his 
attitude  was  normal,  and  from  the  moment  that 
he  resolved  to  take  possession  of  his  property, 
and  operate  it,  he  was  indifferent  to  the  public 
estimate  of  him.  The  thing  was  a  game,  a  game 
with  a  great  stake,  and  set  rules,  and  Henry  took 
it  as  he  once  had  taken  his  golf  and  his  billiards 
and  his  polo — joyously,  resiliently,  deter- 
minedly, and  without  the  slightest  self-con- 
sciousness, and  with  never  an  eye  for  the  gal- 
lery. 

He  was  inspirited,  moreover,  by  the  attitude 

of  his  friends.    To  be  sure,  they  laughed,  but  in 

100 


E  0  P  E  101 

their  laughter  there  was  no  trace  of  the  ridicule 
he  had  feared.  They  took  the  situation  as  a 
very  good  joke  on  Henry,  but  at  the  same  time, 
because  gossip  had  already  begun  to  build  up  a 
theory  to  explain  that  situation,  there  were  sev- 
eral of  them  who  wished  that  a  similar  joke, 
with  a  similar  nubbin,  might  be  played  on 
themselves.  They  told  this  to  Henry,  they 
urged  him  to  go  ahead  and  become  a  strictly 
moral  Wallingford,  they  slapped  him  on  the 
back  and  assured  him  that  if  there  was  jus- 
tice in  the  Sunday-school  books,  he  was  certain 
to  finish  in  the  money;  and  Henry,  who  had 
provided  himself  with  several  air-tight  alibis, 
found  them  dead  .stock  on  his  hands.  He  had 
known,  of  course,  that  he  could  count  on  Bob 
Standish,  and  a  few  of  his  other  intimates,  but 
the  hearty  fellowship  of  the  whole  circle  over- 
whelmed him.  He  knew  that  even  when  they 
waxed  facetious,  they  were  rooting  for  him; 
and  this  knowledge  multiplied  his  confidence, 
and  gave  him  fresh  courage. 

And  yet,  with  all  the  consciousness  of  his 
loyal  backing,  he  was  considerably  upset  to 
read  in  the  Herald,  on  the  very  morning  that 


102  ROPE 

he  took  control  of  his  property,  a  seven  column 
streamer  headline  which  leaped  out  to  threaten 
him. 

"SUNDAY  THEATRES  AND  AMUSEMENTS 
MUST  GO!"— MIX 

Prominent  Business  Man  Turns  Reformer 

THEODORE  MIX  CHOSEN  TO  MANAGE 
CAMPAIGN  OF  LEAGUE 

Pledges  Enforcement  of  City  Ordinances  to  the  Letter 

His  first  reaction  was  one  of  bewilderment, 
and  after  that,  one  of  consternation.  His 
friend  Bob  Standish  tried  to  laugh  it  off  for 
him,  but  Henry  hadn't  a  smile  in  his  system. 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Bob  Standish.  "Go 
see  the  judge.  He'll  tell  you  the  same  thing. 
Mix 's  nothing  but  a  bag  of  wind.  He 's  an  old 
blowhard." 

"Maybe  he  is,"  conceded  Henry,  soberly. 
"But  I'd  be  just  as  satisfied  about  it  if  he  blew 
in  some  other  direction." 

Henry  took  the  paper  to  Judge  Barklay, 
who  had  already  seen  it,  and  made  his  own  de- 
ductions. "Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  aston- 


EOPE  103 

ished.  When  a  man's  in  hot  enough  water, 
he'll  cut  up  almost  any  kind  of  caper  to  get 
out.  There's  only  two  kinds  of  people  who 
ever  go  into  these  radical  movements — great 
successes  and  great  failures.  Never  any  aver- 
age folks.  I'd  say  it's  a  pretty  good  refuge 
for  him,  and  you  drove  him  to  it.*' 

"Well — does  he  mean  what  he  says  there!" 

"Not  too  much  of  it.  How  could  he?  If  he 
does  half  he  says  he  will,  he'll  lose  his  job. 
The  town  would  be  as  pure  as  Utopia,  and 
there  wouldn't  be  any  League." 

"How  about  the  ordinance  he  quotes, 
though?" 

"Oh,  that  ...  it's  Ordinance  147.  It's  so 
old  it's  toothless.  The  City  Council  doesn't 
quite  dare  to  repeal  it — nobody's  sure  enough, 
these  days,  to  get  up  and  take  a  chance — but 
they  don't  want  it  enforced,  and  they  haven't 
for  ages." 

Henry  frowned.  "That's  all  right.  But 
suppose  they  did  arrest  somebody  under  that 
Ordinance?  What  would  you  do?" 

"Fine  'em,  of  course.  I'd  have  to.  But 
I've  never  had  such  a  case  that  I  can  remem- 


104  ROPE 

her.  There  haven't  been  any  arrests.  It's  an 
understood  thing." 

"Yes,  that's  fine — as  long  as  everybody  un- 
derstands it  the  same  way.  But  maybe  Mix 
doesn't — or  Aunt  Mirabelle  either." 

1  'Oh,  I  shouldn't  worry  much." 

Henry  continued  serious.  "Oh,  I  guess  I 
can  sleep  nights  all  right  without  any  pare- 
goric, but  what  right  have  they  got  to  butt  into 
the  only  day  of  recreation  the  working  people 
have?  If  their  immortal  souls  hurt  'em  as 
much  as  all  that,  why  don't  they  go  off  and 
suffer  where  they  can  do  it  in  peace  and  not 
bother  us? " 

The  Judge  laughed  quietly.  "Whence  all  this 
sudden  affection  for  the  working  man,  Henry!" 

Henry  reddened.  "Strictly  between  the  two 
of  us,  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  Sunday  business, 
anyway.  But  unfortunately,  that's  the  big 
day.  .  .  .  But,  if  you  had  to  work  indoors, 
eight  hours  a  day,  six  days  a  week,  maybe  you  'd 
be  satisfied  to  spend  Sundays  picking  sweet 
violets  out  by  the  barge  canal,  but  what  would 
you  do  when  it  rained?" 

"Of  course,"  admitted  the  Judge,  "it's  a 


E  0  P  E  105 

poor  policy  to  have  a  law  on  the  books,  and  ig- 
nore it.  Both  of  us  must  admit  that.  A  good 
law  ought  to  be  kept ;  a  bad  one  ought  to  be  re- 
pealed; but  any  law  that  is  valid  oughtn't  to 
be  winked  at.  And  if  pressure  should  be 
brought  on  the  Mayor  to  enforce  that  ordi- 
nance, and  any  arrests  are  made,  why  I'll  have 
to  do  my  duty." 

"Yes — and  here  I'm  raising  a  mortgage  and 
spending  the  money  on  improvements  that'll 
hold  us  up  for  more  than  two  weeks — and  here 
Anna  and  I  are  going  to  live  in  a  couple  of 
box-stalls  (every  time  you  take  a  long  breath 
in  that  flat  you  create  a  vacuum !) — and  here 
I've  been  going  to  the  City  Commercial  School 
every  afternoon  for  two  solid  hours,  and  study- 
ing like  a  dog  every  night — and  here  I've  re- 
signed from  the  Golf  Club,  and  everything 
else  but  the  Citizens — and  if  they  do  put  the 
kibosh  on  Sunday  shows,  why  I'll  be  elected 
to  the  Hohenzollern  Club.  And  the  cream  of 
that  joke  is  that  Aunt  Mirabelle's  outfit 'd  get 
itself  endowed  for  putting  me  out  of  commis- 
sion!" 

"They  won't  do  it,  Henry.    These  organiza- 


106  EOPE 

tions  always  make  the  same  mistake.  They  go 
too  far.  They  aren't  talking  reform;  they're 
talking  revolution,  and  people  won't  stand  for 
it.  These  reform  crowds  always  start  out 
to  be  a  band-wagon,  and  if  they  kept  their 
senses,  they  could  do  some  real  good — and  then 
they  march  so  fast  that  pretty  soon  they  find 
they've  winded  everybody  else,  and  there  isn't 
any  parade.  All  they  need  is  rope.  Give  'em 
enough  of  it,  and  they  always  hang  themselves. 
That  speech  of  Mix's  has  done  more  harm  to 
the  League  than  it  has  good.  You  go  right 
ahead  with  your  improvements." 

In  view  of  the  Judge's  official  position,  this 
was  in  the  nature  of  an  opinion  from  head- 
quarters; and  yet  Henry  delayed  for  a  day 
or  two  before  he  signed  his  contract  for  the 
alterations.  In  the  meantime,  he  saw  Mr. 
Archer  and  got  an  interpretation  of  the  will; 
Mr.  Archer  was  sorry,  but  if  Sundays  were 
ruled  out,  there  was  no  provision  for  reducing 
the  quota,  and  Henry  would  have  to  stand  or 
fall  on  the  exact  phraseology.  He  had  another 
session  with  the  Judge,  and  three  a  day  with 
Anna,  and  one  with  the  largest  exhibitor  in 


ROPE  107 

town  (who  pooh-poohed  the  League,  and  of- 
fered to  back  up  his  pooh-poohs  with  a  cash 
bet  that  nothing  would  ever  come  of  it)  and 
eventually  he  was  persuaded  to  execute  the 
contract. 

Through  Bob  Standish,  he  negotiated  a 
mortgage  which  would  cover  the  cost  of  the 
work,  and  leave  a  comfortable  balance. 
4 'We 're  not  going  to  be  as  poor  as  I  thought 
we  were,"  he  said  cheerfully  to  Anna  who  had 
put  in  two  hectic  weeks  on  the  apartment  she 
had  chosen  because  it  was  the  cheapest  in  the 
market.  " We've  got  something  in  the  bank 
for  emergencies,  and  ten  thousand  a  year  is 
two  hundred  a  week  besides." 

Anna  was  horrified.  "You  didn't  think  we'd 
spend  what  we  make,  did  you?" 

"Why  not!  Uncle  John  didn't  say  we  had 
to  show  them  ten  thousand  in  coin  at  the  end 
of  the  year;  he  said  I  had  to  make  it — on  the 
books.  We  can  spend  every  kopeck  of  it,  if  we 
want  to.  And  I  was  about  to  say  that  with 
six  thousand  dollars  left  over  from  the  mort- 
gage money,  we  '11  have  a  maid  after  all.  Yea, 
verily,  even  a  cook." 


108  E  0  P  E 

Anna  glanced  at  her  hands — slim,  beautiful 
hands  they  were — and  shook  her  head  obsti- 
nately. "No,  dear.  Because  what  we  save 
now  might  be  our  only  capital  later." 

"But  we're  going  to  win.  We're  going  to 
exert  our  resistless  wills  to  the  utmost.  What's 
the  use  of  being  tightwads?" 

"But  if  we  shouldn't  win,  look  where  we'd 
be !  No,  dear,  we're  going  to  save  our  pennies. 
That's  why  I  picked  out  this  apartment;  that's 
why  I'm  doing  as  much  as  I  can  with  it  my- 
self. It's  the  only  safe  way.  And  just  look 
around — haven't  I  done  wonders  with  almost 
nothing  at  all?" 

Henry  looked  around,  not  that  his  memory 
was  at  fault,  but  because  he  was  perpetually 
dumbfounded  by  her  genius.  Originally,  this 
living-room  had  been  a  dolorous  cave  with  var- 
nished yellow-pine  woodwork,  gas-logs,  yellow 
wall-paper  to  induce  toothache,  and  a  stark 
chandelier  with  two-  anemic  legs  kicking  out  at 
vacancy.  She  had  caused  the  Orpheum  electri- 
cian to  remove  the  chandelier;  with  her  own 
hands,  she  had  painted  the  wood-work  a  deep, 


E  0  P  E  109 

rich  cream-colour;  she  had  ripped  out  the  gas- 
logs  and  found  what  no  one  had  ever  suspected 
— a  practicable  flue ;  and  she  had  put  in  a  bas- 
ket grate  which  in  the  later  season  would  glow 
with  cheerful  coals.  Over  the  wall-paper  she 
had  laid  a  tint  which  was  a  somewhat  deeper 
cream  than  the  woodwork.  .She  had  made  that 
cave  attractive  with  a  soft,  dull-blue  rug,  and 
wicker  furniture,  with  hangings  of  cretonne  in 
sunny  gold  and  an  echo  of  the  blue  rug,  with 
brass  bowls  which  held  the  bulbs  she  had  tended 
on  the  kitchen  window-sill,  with  bookshelves, 
and  pictures  from  her  own  home.  Especially 
by  candle-light,  it  was  charming ;  and  her  great- 
est joy,  and  Henry's  unending  marvel,  was  that 
it  had  cost  so  little,  and  that  so  much  of  it  was 
her  own  handiwork. 

1  'Yes,  but  pause  and  reflect  a  minute,"  said 
Henry.  "I've  sold  the  big  car  and  bought  a 
tin-plated  runabout.  I've  sold  my  horse.  I've 
sold  ten  tons  of  old  clothes  and  priceless  jewels. 
Financially  speaking,  I'm  as  liquid  as  a  pel- 
lucid pool  in  a  primeval  forest.  And  there's 
another  grand  thing  to  consider;  I'm  keeping 


110  ROPE 

my  own  books,  so  nobody's  going  to  crack 
the  till,  the  way  they  did  with  grandfather. 
Can't  we  even  have  a  cook?" 

"No,  dear.  Nobody  but  me.  We've  got  to 
play  safe.  It's  all  part  of  the  game.  Don't 
you  see  it  is  ? ' ' 

Eventually,  he  agreed  with  her,  and  went 
back  to  the  Orpheum,  where  a  score  of  work- 
men were  busy  remodelling  the  interior,  and 
patching  up  the  fa§ade.  He  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment to  watch  the  loading  of  a  truck  with 
broken-seats,  jig-saw  decorations,  and  the  re- 
mains of  a  battered  old  projector;  he  looked 
up,  presently  to  the  huge  sign  over  the  entrance : 
"Closed  During  Alterations,  Grand  Opening 
Sunday  Afternoon,  August  20th.  Souvenirs." 
There  was  no  disputing  the  fact  that  all  his 
eggs  were  in  one  basket,  and  that  if  the  Re- 
form League  started  to  throw  stones  at  it,  they 
would  find  it  a  broad  mark.  But  Henry  had 
plenty  of  assurances  that  he  didn't  need  to 
worry,  and  so  he  sponged  away  the  last  of  his 
doubts,  and  set  to  work  to  learn  his  business 
with  all  possible  speed. 

It  was  his  first  experience  with  the  building 


ROPE  111 

trades,  and  he  was  innocent  enough  to  believe 
in  schedules  and  estimates.  In  less  than  a  fort- 
night, however,  he  came  home  to  his  wife  in 
a  mood  which  she  was  quick  to  detect,  no  mat- 
ter how  carefully  he  disguised  it. 

"Oh,  I'm  just  peevish,"  said  Henry.  "The 
contractor  says  it'll  take  four  weeks  instead 
of  three,  and  cost  six  thousand  instead  of  forty- 
five  hundred.  But  there's  no  use  wearing  a 
long  face  about  it.  If  I  did,  I  didn't  mean  to.*' 

Anna  slipped  out  of  her  big  apron,  and  re- 
arranged her  hair.  "Of  course  you  didn't.  I 
just  knew." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "my  face 
feels  long  enough  to  fit  in  a  churn.  Only  I 
was  under  the  impression  that  I'd  put  on  a 
mask  of  gaiety  that  was  absolutely  impene- 
trable. .  .  .  Well,  what's  happened  in  the  an- 
cestral home  today?" 

She  had  burned  a  steak  and  both  thumbs; 
there  was  a  leak  in  the  plumbing,  and  the 
family  overhead  had  four  children  and  a  phono- 
graph. Henry  kissed  the  thumbs,  cursed  the 
kitchen  range,  and  forgot  his  troubles. 

"You're  going  to  ruin  your  hands,"  he  said, 


112  E  0  P  E 

sympathetically.  "Darn  it,  we  can  afford  a 
cook,  Anna.  Come  on;  be  reasonable." 

She  shook  her  head.  *  *  Oh !  And  I  meant  to 
tell  you  the  wall-paper's  peeling  off  in  the  din- 
ing room,  and  the  most  awful  smell  of  fried 
onions  keeps  coming  up  the  dumb-waiter 
shaft." 

Henry  gathered  her  into  his  arms.  "Dear- 
est, in  a  year  you  can  have  a  dipperful  of 
attar  of  roses  for  every  fried  onion.  And 
we'll  be  so  rich  you  can  mingle  practically  on 
equal  terms  with  the  plumber's  wife.  .  .  .  Now 
let's  go  put  on  the  feed-bag.  And  by  the  way, 
I  prefer  my  steak  slightly  burned — it's  more 
antiseptic." 

He  never  suspected  that  ninety-nine  percent 
of  her  difficulties  were  imaginary,  and  that  she 
had  invented  them  as  soon  as1  she  saw  his 
face. 

A  week  later,  the  contractor  brought  in  still 
another  schedule,  and  another  estimate;  Henry 
became  Chesterfieldian  in  his  politeness,  and 
wanted  to  know  if  a  contract  were  a  contract, 
or  merely  a  piece  of  light  literature.  The  con- 
tractor was  apologetic,  but  wages  were  going 


ROPE  113 

up — materials  were  high — labour  was  scarce — 
transportation  was  uncertain — shipments  were 
slow — 

Henry  was  angry  and  disillusioned,  but  he 
knew  that  belligerence  would  gain  him  nothing. 
"In  other  words,"  he  said,  genially,  " there's 
something  the  matter  with  everything  but  the 
Orpheum,  and  everybody  but  me.  I  congratu- 
late myself.  Well,  when  I  do  get  the  job  fin- 
ished, and  what  does  it  cost — not  to  a  minute 
and  a  fraction  of  a  cent,  of  course,  but  a  gen- 
eral idea — what  year,  and — •'* 

"Mr.  Devereux!" 

"And  a  guess  that's  within  say,  a  couple  of 
thousand  dollars  of  the  real  price." 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  7'm  making  any 
big  profit  out  of  this.  To  tell  the  truth — " 

"Oh,  7  know,"  said  Henry.  "You're  losing 
money.  Don't  deny  it,  you  eleemosynary  ras- 
cal, don 't  deny  it. ' ' 

The  man  felt  himself  insulted,  but  Henry 
was  smiling,  and  of  course  that  strange  word 
might  be  something  technical.  "Well,  to  tell 
the  truth,  we — " 

"Come  on,  now.    I  know  you're  an  altruist, 


114  ROPE 

but  be  a  sport.    You're  losing  money,  and  the 
children  are  moaning  with  hunger  in  their  little 
trundle-beds,  but  when  do  I  get  the  job  done?" 
' '  The  second  week  in  September. ' ' 
"This  September?    And  the  bill?" 
11  Shaved    down    so    close    there's    hardly 
any — " 

" Shave  it  every  morning;  it's  being  done. 
But  what's  your  figure?" 
" Seventy-six  fifty." 

There  was  nothing  for  Henry  to  do  but  to 
have  a  new  date  painted  on  the  sign,  and  to 
draw  on  his  reserve  fund,  but  at  bottom  he 
was  vastly  perturbed.  He  had  counted  on  a 
running  start,  and  every  week  of  delay  was 
a  vicious  handicap.  If  he  had  remotely  imag- 
ined how  elastic  a  contractor 's  agreement  could 
be,  he  would  certainly  have  thought  twice 
about  ordering  so  many  changes — he  would 
have  steered  a  middle  course,  and  been  satis- 
fied with  half  the  improvement — but  as  it  was, 
he  had  put  himself  in  a  trap.  Now  that  the 
work  was  partly  done,  it  would  have  to  be  com- 
pleted. There  was  no  way  out  of  it.  And  from 
day  to  day,  as  the  arrears  of  labour  heaped  up, 


K  0  P  E  115 

and  cost  was  piled  on  cost,  Henry  began  to 
lose  a  trifle  of  his  fine  buoyancy  and  optimism. 

Also,  it  was  amazing  to  discover  that  Anna 
was  much  less  self-reliant  than  he  had  thought 
her.  Almost  every  night  she  displayed  some 
unsuspected  trait  of  helplessness,  so  that  he 
simply  had  to  shelve  his  worries,  and  baby  her 
out  of  her  own.  He  adored  her,  and  there- 
fore he  never  questioned  her  ingenuousness ;  he 
didn't  see  that  by  monopolizing  his  thoughts, 
and  turning  them  entirely  upon  herself,  she  pre- 
vented him  from  wasting  his  energy  in  futile 
brooding,  even  if  he  had  inclined  to  it. 

He  planned  to  open  in  mid-September,  but  a 
strike  among  the  carpenters  added  a  few  days 
to  the  time,  and,  by  virtue  of  a  compromise, 
a  few  dollars  to  the  account.  The  building  in- 
spector wouldn't  pass  the  wiring,  and  the  elec- 
tricians took  a  holiday  before  they  conde- 
scended to  return.  When  the  last  nail  was 
driven,  the  last  brushful  of  paint  applied,  the 
final  item  added  to  the  long  statement,  the  day 
was  the  last  Friday  in  the  month,  and  the  total 
bill  amounted  to  more  than  nine  thousand  dol- 
lars. 


116  E  0  P  E 

"Anna,"  said  Henry,  reflectively,  "it's  a 
lucky  thing  for  us  this  world  was  all  built  be- 
fore we  were  born.  Know  that?  Because  if 
they  'd  ever  started  it  under  modern  conditions, 
there  wouldn't  be  anything  to  it  yet  but  the 
Garden  of  Eden  and  Atlantic  City  and  maybe 
Gopher  Prairie.  .  .  .  Well,  I  wonder  .what's 
next?" 

"There  won't  be  any  next,  dear.  Nothing 
can  happen  now.  And  aren't  you  glad  I've 
made  us  economize?  Aren't  you?  Say  your 
prayers!  Say — 'bless  Anna'!" 

"Not  Anna — Polly  anna.  Glad  we  econo- 
mized !  Why  don't  you  say  you're  glad  it  took 
two  months  to  do  two  weeks '  work  because  that 
gave  me  so  much  more  time  to  study  the  game, 
and  find  out  how  to  run  the  theatre?  No,  it 
goes  back  farther  than  that.  I'm  glad  you 
caught  me  while  I  was  so  young." 

"Henry!" 

"What?  Don't  you  remember  how  you  pur- 
sued me,  and  vamped  me,  and  took  away  my 
volition,  so  I  was  helpless  as  a  babe — " 

"Oh,  Henry!" 

"Sure  you  did.    Funny  you  don't  remember 


ROPE  117 

that.    Or  else — was  it  the  other  way  around?" 

"Well—  " 

"Well,  anyhow,"  he  said,  in  a  slightly  lower 
key.  "I'm  glad  it  happened.  .  .  .  And  you 
stick  to  me,  and  you'll  wear  diamonds  yet. 
Great  hunks  of  grit,  strung  all  over  you.  I'll 
make  you  look  as  vulgar  as  a  real  society 
woman.  That's  the  kind  of  man  I  am.  A  good 
provider — that  is,  of  course,  providing." 

And  on  Saturday  morning,  the  Herald  told 
them  that  a  committee  from  the  Reform  League 
had  waited  on  the  Mayor  for  the  third  time, 
and  delivered  an  ultimatum. 

"Oh,  bother!"  said  Anna.  "There's  been 
something  in  the  paper  every  two  or  three 
days.  It  doesn't  amount  to  a  row  of  pins.  Dad 
says  so." 

Henry  inhaled  deeply.  "Did  you  see  who's 
on  that  committee?  Mix  and  Aunt  Mirabelle, 
of  course,  and  if  they've  got  it  in  for  anybody 
special,  I'm  it.  Bob  says  Mix  is  a  grand  little 
hater;  he's  seen  him  in  action,  and  he  says  to 
keep  an  eye  on  him:  says  Mix  had  lined  up  a 
buyer  for  the  Orpheum,  so  naturally  he's  sore 
at  me.  .  .  .  And  then  a  flock  of  old  men  just 


118  ROPE 

under  par — I'd  say  they  average  about  ninety- 
seven  and  a  half — but  they're  a  pretty  solid 
lot;  too  solid  to  be  booted  out  of  any  Mayor's 
office.  And  if  they  should  get  the  Mayor 
stirred  up,  why,  we  wouldn't  have  the  chance 
of  a  celluloid  rat  in  a  furnace.  ...  I  wish  the 
Judge  were  where  I  could  get  at  him.  He'd 
know  what's  going  on." 

" Couldn't  you  ask  the  Exhibitors  Associa- 
tion?" 

"They  don't  know.  The  Judge  is  on  the  in- 
side. Do  you  know  when  he's  coming  back 
from  his  vacation?" 

"Not  for  two  or  three  weeks  yet.  But  IVe 
an  intuition,  dear — " 

"Sure.  So  have  I.  A  year  from  now  we'll 
be  eating  our  golden  pheasants  off  our  golden 
plates  with  our  gold  teeth.  But  in  the  mean- 
time, you  better  keep  your  eye  on  the  butcher's 
bill.  .  .  .  They  tell  me  hash  is  a  great  nerve- 
food." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  years  the  Mayor  was  no  chicken,  but  in 
politics  he  had  hardly  chipped  his  shell, 
so  that  he  was  still  susceptible  to  delegations, 
and  sets  of  resolutions,  and  references  to  his 
solemn  oath  of  office.  Furthermore,  he  had 
been  secretly  awed  by  Mr.  Mix's  eloquence; 
for  Mr.  Mix,  as  spokesman  of  the  committee, 
had  delivered  a  speech  which  was  a  brief  his- 
tory of  both  common  and  statutory  law  from 
the  time  of  Solon  and  Draco  up  to  the  most  re- 
cent meeting  of  the  City  Council.  Then,  in 
addition,  the  Mayor  had  been  mightily  im- 
pressed by  the  personnel  of  that  committee — 
chiefly  old  men,  to  be  sure,  but  men  of  immense 
dignity  and  considerable  weight  in  local  fi- 
nance; and  also,  for  a  counterpoise,  there  was 
Miss  Starkweather.  He  hadn't  liked  the  way 
Miss  Starkweather  looked  at  him.  She  had 
looked  at  him  with  the  same  rigid  intensity 

119 


120  ROPE 

with  which  his  wife  looked  at  a  fly  in  the  din- 
ing-room. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  the  last  of  the  com- 
mittee, the  Mayor  drew  a  prodigious  breath, 
and  walked  over  to  the  window,  where  for  sev- 
eral minutes  he  remained  in  deep  thought.  He 
tried  to  remember  Mr.  Mix's  peroration : 

"  Thousands  of  years  ago,  Mr.  Mayor,  when 
the  race  of  man  was  still  dressed  in  skins,  and 
domiciled  in  caves,  and  settling  its  differences 
with  clubs  and  brickbats,  there  was  no  insti- 
tution of  law, — there  was  no  written  language. 
But  as  civilization  advanced,  men  found  the 
necessity  of  communicating  their  ideas ;  so  that 
they  devised  a  form  of  speech  which  would 
enable  them  to  exchange  these  ideas — such  as 
they  were — about  life,  and  law.  And  later  on, 
it  was  plain  that  in  order  to  perpetuate  these 
ideas  and  pass  them  to  posterity,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  write  them  down ;  and  so  there  was  de- 
veloped a  written  language,  and  by  this  method 
civilized  men  through  all  the  ages  have  written 
down  the  laws  under  which  they  are  willing  to 
live.  It  would  be  impractical  for  all  of  us  to 
meet  together  to  pass  our  laws,  and  therefore 


EOPE  121 

we  elect  representatives  who  make  our  laws 
for  us.  These  laws  are  binding  upon  all  of 
us  until  they  are  set  aside  by  still  other  legisla- 
tors, still  acting  for  the  whole  people,  who 
have  chosen  them  as  their  legislative  repre- 
sentatives. The  duty  of  the  executive  branch 
of  our  government  is  to  enforce  those  laws, 
whether  made  yesterday,  or  made  fifty  years 
ago,  or  five  hundred  years  ago,  and  written 
down  in  our  law-books.  .  .  .  This  is  our  third 
conference  with  you,  Mr.  Mayor,  in  regard  to 
one  of  those  laws.  I  therefore  have  to  inform 
you,  in  behalf  of  our  committee  and  our  League, 
and  our  whole  city  (whose  representatives  in 
City  Council  passed  that  law  for  our  common 
good)  that  you  stand  today  at  the  parting  of 
the  ways.  You  must  choose  whether  to  up- 
hold your  sacred  oath  of  office,  or  to  disre- 
gard it.  And  iwithin  forty-eight  hours  you 
will  have  made  that  choice,  and  we  shall  know 
where  our  duty  lies.  ...  I  thank  you  for  your 
patience. ' ' 

The  Mayor  was  one  of  those  who,  without 
the  first  atom  of  sustaining  evidence,  had  long 
been  vaguely  suspicious  that  Mr.  Mix  wasn't 


122  E  0  P  E 

always  as  pious  as  he  appeared  in  church.  He 
had  noted,  too,  that  although  Mr.  Mix's  name 
was  frequently  listed  on  committees,  yet  it 
never  bobbed  up  in  connection  with  an  ob- 
scure cause,  however  worthy,  or  among  the 
names  of  unimportant  citizens.  He  was  con- 
vinced that  Mr.  Mix  had  an  ulterior  motive — 
political,  social,  financial — but  the  worst  of  it 
was  that  Mr.  Mix  had  come  with  support  which 
couldn't  be  sidetracked. 

The  Mayor  shook  himself,  and  went  over  to 
his  telephone ;  a  few  minutes  later  the  Chief  of 
Police  strolled  in,  and  grinned  at  the  disordered 
•semi-circle  of  chairs.  "Been  holdin'  a  prayer- 
meetin',  Mr.  Rowland!" 

The  Mayor  was  biting  his  moustache.  "Sit 
down,  Chief.  I  want  some  advice.  .  .  .  Lord, 
I  wish  Barklay  wasn't  off  on  his  vacation.  .  .  . 
Why,  I've  just  had  a  threat  from  this  Reform 
League. ' ' 

"Threat?    What  kind  of  a  threat?" 

The  Mayor  didn't  reply  immediately;  he  con- 
tinued to  chew  his  moustache.  ' '  You  know  that 
fool  Sunday  law — was  passed  'way  back  in  the 
year  One?" 


E  0  P  E  123 

1  'Sure.     147.    Dead  letter." 

"They  say  it's  got  to  be  enforced/' 

The  Chief  laughed  boisterously.  "That's  a 
big  order." 

"I  know  it  is.  The  mass  of  the  people  don't 
want  it — never  did.  But  in  these  days  there 
isn't  a  Councillor  I  know'd  put  a  motion  to  re- 
peal it,  or  amend  it.  Probition's  scared  'em. 
They  don't  know  what  the  people  want,  so 
they're  laying  mighty  low.  .  .  .  Same  time,  this 
League 's  getting  pretty  strong.  Mix,  and  John 
Starkweather's  sister,  and  ex-Senator  Kaplan, 
Richards  of  the  First  National,  Dr.  Smillie  of 
the  Church  crowd,  old  man  Fredericks  of  Na- 
tional Metal — know  what  they  handed  me  to- 
day!" 

"Let  her  come." 

The  Mayor  snorted  with  disgust.  "Hinted 
if  I  didn't  begin  enforcement  day  after  tomor- 
row they'd  appeal  to  the  Governor.  .  .  .  Lord, 
I  wish  Barklay  was  here." 

The  Chief  grinned  again.  "I  know  what 
Barklay 'd  say." 

"What!" 

"Give  'em  rope." 


124  E  0  P  E 

"We-11  .  .  .  that's  easy  enough  to  say." 

4 'Easy  to  do,  too." 

"I  can't  see  it.  But  if  they  go  up  to  the 
Governor,  with  a  petition  to  investigate — and 
the  state  law's  pretty  rough — and  start  im- 
peachment proceedings — " 

The  Chief  spat  contemptuously.  ''Shucks, 
give  'em  rope." 

"Well— how?" 

"Why,  enforce  the  damn'  law — just  once. 
Spike  Mix's  guns — he's  only  doin'  this  on  a 
bluff.  Guess  he  wants  the  reform  vote  for 
Council,  or  somethin'.  Keep  it  under  our  bon- 
nets, and  send  out  a  squad  of  patrolman  Sun- 
day afternoon  to  raid  every  theatre  in  town. 
Bat  'em  over  the  head  before  they  know  it.  I 
wouldn't  even  tell  my  own  men  'till  I  lined 
'em  up  and  give  'em  their  orders.  Then  listen 
for  the  public  to  holler." 

The  Mayor  had  broken  into  a  high-pitched 
laugh;  he  stopped  abruptly.  "How  many 
people 'd  there  be  in  all  the  houses  put  to- 
gether?" 

' '  Six  thousand.    Five  of  'em  at  the  movies. ' ' 

"They'd  start  a  riot!" 


ROPE  125 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  pinch  the  audiences;  just 
the  managers,  and  bust  up  the  shows.  Then 
you'd  find  out  if  the  people  want  that  law  or 
not.  We  say  they  don't,  but  how  do  we  know? 
Let's  find  out." 

The  Mayor  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  began 
to  chuckle.  "Chief,  that's  a  bully  idea — but 
what'd  happen  on  Monday?" 

"Happen?  When,  five,  six  thousand  voters 
got  put  out  in  the  street  and  their  Sunday  after- 
noon spoiled?  Fellows  with  girls — Pa  takin* 
the  family  out  for  a  treat — factory  hands? 
They'd  be  a  howlin'  mob  in  the  Council  chamber 
on  Monday  mornin';  that's  what'd  happen. 
And  one  damn  fool  law'd  be  fixed  so's  the  Po- 
lice Department 'd  know  how  to  handle  it." 

"It's  passing  the  buck!"  murmured  the 
Mayor,  ecstatically.  "It's  passing  the  buck 
right  to  the  people,  by  George ! ' ' 

"Sure.  Do  we  go  ahead  with  it?  Want 
anybody  tipped  off?" 

The  Mayor  was  hugging  his  knees  ecstati- 
cally. "No,  we'll  make  a  clean  sweep.  No 
favourites.  The  bigger  haul  the  better.  All  the 
boys '11  understand.  Keep  it  dead  under  your 


126  K  0  P  E 

hat.  We'll  talk  over  the  details  tomorrow." 
Chuckling,  he  leaned  back  and  opened  his  arms 
wide,  his  fists  closed.  "Rope!"  he  said. 
"Rope!  Chief,  we'll  give  'em  a  hawser!" 


On  Saturday  evening,  Henry  gave  a  special 
invitation  performance,  to  which  only  his  per- 
sonal friends  and  Anna's  were  bidden,  and  if 
he  had  cherished  any  lingering  doubt  of  his 
place  in  society,  it  must  have  been  removed  that 
night.  His  friends  didn't  know  the  details  of 
the  Starkweather  trust  fund,  but  they  knew  that 
Henry's  future  was  lashed  to  his  success  with 
the  Orpheum,  and  they  came  to  help  tie  the 
knot.  Naturally,  since  the  auditorium  was 
filled  with  young  people  who  had  grown  up  to- 
gether, and  with  a  few  older  people  who  had 
helped  to  bring  them  up,  there  was  plenty  of 
informality — indeed,  a  large  part  of  it  had  been 
scheduled  and  rehearsed  in  advance.  Henry 
didn't  have  to  ask  any  questions;  he  knew  that 
Bob  Standish  was  responsible. 

With  Anna  beside  him,  he  had   stood  for 


ROPE  127 

thirty  minutes  in  the  foyer,  to  receive  his 
guests,  and  as  smile  after  smile  encouraged  him, 
and  he  heard  the  steady  stream  of  sincere 
good-wishes,  Henry  began  to  grow  curiously 
warm  in  the  region  of  his  heart,  and  curiously 
weak  in  the  knees.  Anna  moved  closer  to  him. 

"I  told  you  so,"  she  whispered.  "I  told  you 
so.  Everybody  loves  you." 

1  'It  isn't  me,"  he  whispered  back,  with  un- 
grammatical  fervour.  "It's  you." 

They  stood  together,  then,  at  the  rear  of  the 
house,  to  watch  the  high-jinks  going  on  in  front. 
Standish  had  ousted  the  three-piece  orchestra, 
and  taken  over  the  piano;  two  other  volun- 
teers had  flanked  him,  and  the  revelry  began 
with  a  favourite  ditty  to  proclaim  that  all  re- 
ports to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  Henry 
was  style  all  the  while,  all  the  while. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  were  loud  shouts  for 
Henry  and  Anna,  and  they  were  seized  and 
dragged  to  the  top  of  the  centre  aisle.  Stand- 
ish swung  into  the  Mendelssohn  Wedding 
March,  and  through  a  haze  of  rose-leaf  confetti 
and  paper  streamers,  the  two  Devereuxs  were 
forced  down  to  the  orchestra-pit.  The  house 


128  E  0  P  E 

was  on  its  feet  to  them,  and  Anna,  half -laugh- 
ing, half-crying  with  happiness,  was  sorting 
confetti  out  of  her  hair  when  Standish  clam- 
bered up  on  the  stage,  and  waved  for  silence. 
"Listen,  everybody.  .  .  .  Old  Hank  Dever- 
eux  and  wife  tried  to  save  the  price  of  a  ca- 
terer, last  spring,  and  they  got  away  with  it. 
Alas,  Hank's  a  jealous  bird,  and  he  was  afraid 
somebody 'd  kiss  the  bride.  Furthermore,  Anna 
didn't  want  to  get  any  wedding  presents,  be- 
cause they  clutter  up  the  house  so.  And  when 
most  of  your  friends  live  in  the  same  town, 
it 's  hard  to  get  rid  of  the  stuff  you  don 't  want. 
So  they  buncoed  us  out  of  a  party.  Well,  so 
far  we've  given  'em  Mendelssohn  and  confetti. 
Any  lady  or  gent  who  now  desires  to  kiss  the 
bride,  please  rise  and  come  forward.  .  .  . 
Hey,  there !  This  isn't  any  Sinn  Fein  sociable ! 
Ceremony's  postponed!  .  .  .  And  finally, 
dearly  beloved  brethren  and  sistren,  we 
come  to  the  subject  of  wedding  gifts."  He 
turned  to  look  down  at  the  Devereuxs,  and 
some  of  the  levity  went  out  of  his  voice.  "We 
thought  we'd  bring  you  a  little  something  for 
good-luck,  old  man.  It's  from  all  of  us.  Hope 


ROPE  129 

you  like  it.  If  you  don't,  you  can  swap  it  for 
a  few  tons  of  coal.  .  .  .  There  she  comes!" 

It  was  a  magnificent  silver  tea-service, 
borne  down  the  aisle  by  the  two  men  who, 
next  to  Standish,  were  Henry's  best  friends. 

Anna  was  utterly  speechless,  and  Henry  was 
coughing  diligently.  The  service  was  placed 
on  the  piano;  Henry  touched  the  cool  smooth- 
ness of  a  cream-jug,  and  tried  to  crystallize  his 
thought  into  coherence. 

The  applause  had  died  away;  the  house  was 
quiet,  expectant.  From  the  rear,  a  man's 
voice  said:  "It  isn't  like  a  golf  champion- 
ship trophy,  old  man — you  don't  have  to  win 
it  three  times — it's  all  yours." 

In  the  shriek  of  laughter  which  followed, 
Henry,  with  Anna  in  tow,  fled  to  shelter. 
"Lights!"  said  Henry.  Abruptly,  the  audi- 
torium was  dim.  And  with  Anna  holding  tight 
to  his  fingers,  he  sat  down  in  the  furthest  cor- 
ner, and  trembled. 

For  the  next  two  hours,  Standish,  who  was 
on  one  of  his  periodical  fits  of  comedy,  stuck 
to  his  piano,  and  dominated  the  evening.  He 
played  grotesquely  inappropriate  melodies,  he 


130  ROPE 

commanded  singing,  once  he  stopped  the  show 
and  with  the  assistance  of  a  dozen  recruits  put 
on  the  burlesque  of  an  amateur  night  at  a 
music-hall.  He  made  the  occasion  a  historical 
event,  and  when  at  last  it  was  over,  and  the 
guests  were  filing  out  to  the  lobby,  he  came 
to  Henry  and  held  out  his  hand. 

' l  Big-time,  Henry,  big-time, '  *  he  said.  ' '  See  ? 
They're  all  with  you." 

Henry  cleared  his  throat.  "  You  're  a  peach, 
Bob.  You  got  it  up." 

1  'Oh,  it  wasn't  anything."  Standish's  cloak 
of  comedy  had  fallen  away;  he  looked  as  lazy, 
and  as  innocent  and  childlike  as  ever.  "Be- 
fore I  go — I  had  a  letter  today  from  one  of  the 
big  movie  circuit  crowd.  They'll  pay  you 
thirty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  cash  for  the 
Orpheum.  I've  got  a  certified  check  for  a  thou- 
sand to  bind  the  bargain.  Want  it?" 

Henry  didn't  even  glance  at  it.  "Put  it 
back  in  your  pocket,  Bob.  I  wouldn't  sell  it 
for  ten  times  that — not  after  tonight." 

His  friend  smiled  very  faintly.  *  *  It 's  a  good 
price,  if  you  care  to  get  out  from  under.  Be- 


ROPE  131 

tween  you  and  me,  I  think  it's  more  than  the 
Orpheum's  worth." 

" Don't  want  it,"  said  Henry  gruffly. 

Standish  gazed  with  vast  innocence  at  Anna. 
"Third  and  last  chance,  Henry.  Otherwise, 
I'll  mail  it  back  tonight.  Just  a  few  hours 
from  now  this  place,  right  where  we're  stand- 
ing, '11  look  like  a  sardine-can  come  to  life, 
and  you'll  be  taking  in  money  hand  over  fist, 
and  you'll  be  branded  forever  as — " 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  said  Henry,  affectionately. 


Through  the  jostling,  good-natured  crowd 
which  blocked  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Or- 
pheum  Theatre,  that  Sunday  at  two  o'clock, 
a  policeman  in  uniform  pushed  his  way  to  the 
ticket-booth.  "Where's  the  manager?" 

The  ticket-seller  boblx  1  her  head  backwards. 
"First  door  on  the  left." 

The  policeman  stalked  through  the  lobby, 
and  found  the  door;  knocked  belligerently,  and 
stepped  inside.  "You  the  manager?  Well, 


132  ROPE 

there  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  show  today,  see?" 

Henry  jumped  to  his  feet.    " What's  that?" 

"You  heard  what  I  said.  No  show.  Close 
up  your  theatre  and  call  it  a  day. ' ' 

Henry  turned,  for  moral  support,  to  his  wife : 
she  had  already  hurried  to  his  side.  "What's 
all  this,  Mr.  Officer?"  she  asked,  unsteadily. 

"It's  police  orders;  that's  what  it  is,  young 
lady." 

She  seized  Henry's  hand.  "But — but  when 
we've — why,  you  don't  really  mean  it,  do  you?" 

He  dug  into  his  pocket,  and  produced  a  tat- 
tered, dog-eared  pamphlet,  folded  open  at  one 
of  the  early  pages.  He  read  aloud,  slowly: 
"  'Whosoever  shall  fail  in  the  strict  observance 
o '  the  Lord 's  Day  by  any  unseemly  act,  speech, 
or  carriage,  or  whosoever  shall  engage  in  any 
manner  o'  diversion  or  profane  occupation  for 
profit—'  " 

Anna,  holding  tight  to  Henry's  hand,  knew 
that  argument  was  futile,  but  she  was  a  woman, 
and  she  had  a  husband  to  defend.  Her  heart 
was  leaden,  but  her  voice  was  stout  with  indig- 
nation. 

"But  Mr.  Policeman!    Do  you  know  who  I 


E  0  P  E  133 

am?  I'm  Judge  Barklay's  daughter.  7  know 
all  about  that  ordinance.  Nobody's  ever — " 

He  held  up  his  hand  in  warning.  "That's 
all  right,  young  lady.  If  you're  his  daughter, 
you  oughter  keep  on  the  right  side  o'  the  law. 
It  won't  do  you  no  good  to  bicker  about  it  nei- 
ther— you  go  in  there  an'  tell  your  audience  to 
get  their  money  back,  an'  go  on  home." 

Henry  picked  up  his  cigarette.  He  had  no 
craving  to  smoke,  but  he  didn't  want  Anna  to 
see  that  his  lips  were  trembling.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "there  goes  the  old  ball-game.  And  we've 
sold  every  seat  in  the  house,  and  thrown  away 
three  hundred  dollar's  worth  of  souvenirs,  and 
the  sidewalk's  full  of  people  waiting  for  the 
second  show.  .  .  .  Knockout  Mix  beats  Battling 
Devereux  in  the  first  round."  He  did  his  best 
to  smile,  but  the  results  were  poor.  "And 
when  we  held  off  three  days  just  so  we  could 
start  on  Sunday  with  a  grand  smash ! ' ' 

"Get  a  move  on,  young  feller.  If  the  show 
begins,  you're  pinched,  see?  You  go  in  there 
and  do  what  I  told  you." 

From  within  there  was  a  sudden  rattle  of 
applause.  Anna  gripped  her  husband's  arm. 


134  E  0  P  E 

It's  ...  it's  begun  already,"  she  said,  breath- 
lessly. 

The  policeman  stepped  forward.  "You 
heard  me  tell  you  to  stop  it,  didn't  you?  What 
are  you  tryin*  to  do — play  horse  with  me  I  Now 
you  go  in  there  an'  stop  it,  and  then  you  come 
along  with  me  an '  explain  it  to  the  Judge.  See  ? 
Now,  get  a  wiggle  on." 


CHAPTER  IX 

FROM  the  moment  that  he  went  out  upon  the 
little  stage  of  his  theatre  until  he  came 
wearily  into  his  own  apartment  at  five  o'clock, 
Henry  lived  upon  a  mental  plane  so  far  re- 
moved from  his  usual  existence  that  he  was 
hardly  aware  of  any  bodily  sensations  at  all. 
A  brand-new  group  of  emotions  had  picked  him 
out  for  their  play-ground,  and  Henry  had  no 
time  to  be  self-conscious. 

In  the  first  place,  he  was  too  stunned  to  re- 
member that  he  hated  to  be  conspicuous,  and 
that  he  had  never  made  a  public  speech  in  all 
his  life.  He  was  paralyzed  by  the  contrast  be- 
tween last  night  and  tod^y.  Consequently,  he 
made  a  very  good  speech  indeed,  and  it  had 
some  acrid  humour  in  it,  too,  and  the  audience 
actually  cheered  him — although  later,  when  he 
reviewed  the  incident  in  his  mind,  he  had  to 
admit  that  the  cheers  were  loudest  just  after 
he  had  told  the  audience  to  keep  the  souvenirs. 

135 


136  ROPE 

Then,  when  in  the  custody  of  the  patrolman, 
he  went  out  to  the  street,  his  mood  was  still 
so  concentrated,  his  anger  and  depression  so 
acute,  that  he  was  transported  out  of  the  very 
circumstances  which  caused  him  to  be  angry 
and  depressed.  He  realized,  with  a  hazy  sort 
of  perception,  that  a  tail  of  small  boys  had  at- 
tached itself  to  the  lodestar  of  the  policeman's 
uniform;  but  even  at  this  indignity,  his  reac- 
tion was  curiously  impersonal.  It  was  as 
though  the  spiritual  part  of  him  and  the  ma- 
terial part  had  got  a  divorce ;  and  the  spiritual 
part,  which  was  the  plaintiff,  stood  coldly  aloof, 
watching  the  material  part  tramping  down 
Main  Street,  with  a  flat-footed  policeman  beside 
it,  a  voluntary  escort  behind,  and  rumour  flying 
on  ahead  to  all  the  newspapers.  He  was  actu- 
ally too  humiliated  to  suffer  from  the  hu- 
miliation. 

To  be  sure,  this  wasn't  by  any  means  his 
first  entanglement  with  the  law,  but  heretofore 
his  occasions  had  been  marked  by  a  very  dif- 
ferent ritual.  He  recalled,  phlegmatically, 
that  whenever,  in  the  old  days,  a  member  of  the 


ROPE  137 

motorcycle  squad  had  shot  past  him,  and 
signalled  to  him  to  stop,  the  man  had  always 
treated  him  more  or  less  fraternally,  in  recog- 
nition of  the  fellowship  of  high  speed.  The 
traffic  officers  had  cheerfully  delivered  a  sum- 
mons with  one  hand,  and  accepted  a  cigar  with 
the  other.  There  was  a  sort  of  sporting  code 
about  it;  and  even  in  Court,  a  gentleman  who 
had  been  arrested  for  speeding  was  given  the 
consideration  which  belonged  to  his  rank,  and 
the  fine  was  usually  doubled  on  the  assump- 
tion that  a  gentleman  could  afford  it.  But 
this  was  different.  A  Devereux — which  was 
almost  the  same  thing  as  a  Starkweather — was 
haled  along  the  highway  like  a  common  pris- 
oner. And  if  the  Devereux  hadn't  been  en- 
gaged in  that  two-for-a-cent,  low-class,  revolt- 
ing business, — and  if  Aunt  Mirabelle  hadn't 
been  Aunt  Mirabelle — it  couldn't  have  hap- 
pened. The  spiritual  part  of  him  looked  down 
at  the  material  part,  and  wondered  how  Henry 
Devereux  could  be  so  white-hot  with  passion, 
and  yet  so  calm. 
What  would  his  friends  say  now?  What 


138  K  0  P  E 

would  Bob  Standish  say,  and  Mr.  Archer  and 
Judge  Barklay?  And  what  would  Aunt  Mira- 
belle  not  say?  This  was  a  grim  reflection. 

During  the  journey  he  spoke  only  once,  and 
that  was  to  say,  brusquely,  to  his  captor: 
1 1 Court  isn't  open  today,  is  it?" 

"Nope.  But  we're  goin'  to  a  Justice  o' 
the  Peace.  Might  save  you  a  night  in  the  hoose- 
gow.  Can't  tell.  Orders,  anyway." 

The  Justice  of  the  Peace  (or,  as  he  took  some 
pains  to  inform  Henry,  the  Most  Honourable 
Court  of  Special  Sessions)  was  a  grizzled 
dyspeptic  who  held  forth  in  the  back  room  of 
a  shoemaker's  shop,  while  the  rabble  waited 
outside,  flattening  their  noses  against  the  win- 
dow-glass. The  dyspeptic  had  evidently  been 
coached  for  the  proceeding ;  on  his  desk  he  had 
a  copy  of  the  ordinance,  and  as  soon  as  he  had 
heard  the  charge,  he  delivered  a  lecture  which 
he  seemed  to  have  by  heart,  and  fined  Henry 
twenty-five  dollars  and  costs.  Henry  paid  the 
fine,  and  turning  to  go,  stumbled  against  two 
more  policemen,  each  with  his  quarry.  "Just 
out  of  curiosity,"  said  Henry,  speaking  to  no 
one  in  particular,  and  in  a  voice  which  came  so 


K  0  P  E  139 

faintly  to  his  ears  that  he  barely  heard  it, 
"Just  out  of  idle  curiosity,  when  the  justice 
gets  half  the  fine,  isn't  this  court  open  on  Sun- 
day for  godless  profit,  too  ? ' '  And  in  the  same, 
enduring  haze  of  unreality,  he  paid  an  addi- 
tional twenty  dollars  for  contempt,  and  went 
out  to  the  sidewalk. 

He  emerged  as  the  focus  of  interest  for  a 
large,  exuberant  crowd  of  loiterers.  A  cam- 
era clicked,  and  Henry  saw  that  the  man  at  the 
shutter  was  one  of  the  Herald's  staff  photog- 
raphers. A  youthful  reporter  caught  up  with 
him,  and  asked  him  what  he  had  to  say  for 
publication.  "Say  for  publication?"  repeated 
Henry,  dully.  "Why,  you  can  say — "  He 
walked  half  a  block  before  he  completed  the 
sentence.  "You  can  say  if  I  said  it,  you 
couldn't  print  it  anyway." 

And  although  the  reporter  paced  him  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  Henry  never  opened  his 
mouth  again.  He  was  curiously  obsessed,  as 
men  under  heavy  mental  pressure  are  so  often 
obsessed,  by  a  ridiculously  trivial  detail.  How 
was  he  going  to  enter  that  forty-five  dollars 
on  his  books? 


140  E  0  P  E 

He  had  intended  to  go  straight  home  to  Anna, 
but  automatically  his  steps  led  him  to  the  Or- 
pheum,  where  he  went  into  his  tiny  office  and 
sat  down  at  his  desk.  There  were  two  enve- 
lopes on  his  blotter;  he  slit  them,  diffidently, 
and  found  a  bill  from  the  novelty  house  which 
had  supplied  the  souvenirs,  and  a  supplemen- 
tary statement  from  the  decorator. 

He  opened  a  fat  ledger,  took  up  a  pencil,  and 
began  to  jot  down  figures  on  the  back  of  one  of 
the  envelopes.  Already,  by  remodelling  the 
the  theatre,  he  had  lost  two  month's  headway, 
and  spent  three  times  too  much  money,  and 
if  Sunday  performances  were  to  be  eliminated. 
.  .  .  He  threw  down  the  pencil,  and  sat 
back  spiritless.  The  good-wishes  of  all  his 
friends,  last  night,  had  turned  sour  in  his  pos- 
session. To  reach  his  goal,  he  should  have 
to  contrive,  somehow,  to  fill  nearly  every  seat 
at  nearly  every  performance  for  the  balance 
of  the  year.  It  was  all  well  enough  to  have 
self-confidence,  and  courage,  but  it  was  better 
to  look  facts  in  the  face.  He  had  oome  to  an 
impasse.  Not  only  that,  but  overnight  his 
property,  by  virtue  of  this  Sunday  enforcement 


E  0  P  E  141 

and  its  effect  upon  the  trade,  had  seriously 
depreciated  in  value.  If  it  had  been  worth 
thirty-seven  thousand  five  hundred  yesterday, 
it  wasn't  worth  a  penny  more  than  twenty  to- 
day. And  he  could  have  had  Standish's  certi- 
fied check,  and  got  out  from  under.  And  he 
had  thrown  away  in  improvements  almost  every 
cent  that  he  had  borrowed  against  the  original 
value.  He  was  hardly  better  off,  today,  than 
if  he  had  carried  through  his  first  bargain  with 
Mr.  Mix. 

He  would  have  to  go  home  to  Anna,  and  con- 
fess that  he  was  beaten  by  default.  He  would 
have  to  explain  to  her,  as  gently  as  he  could, 
that  the  road  which  led  to  the  end  of  the  rain- 
bow was  closed  to  traffic.  He  would  have  to 
admit  to  her  that  as  far  as  he  could  see,  he 
was  destined  to  go  on  living  indefinitely  in  a 
jerry-built  apartment,  with  the  odour  of  fried 
onions  below,  and  the  four  children  and  the 
phonograph  overhead.  And  Anna  would  have 
to  go  on  pinch-hitting  for  cook,  and  waitress,! 
and  chambermaid,  and  bottle-washer — she 
would  have  to  go  on  with  the  desecration  of 
her  beautiful  hands  in  dish-water,  and  the  ruin 


142  ROPE 

of  her  complexion  over  the  kitchen-stove.  The 
clothes  that  he  had  planned  to  buy  for  her,  the 
jewels,  the  splendid  car — the  cohort  of  servants 
he  had  planned  for  her — the  social  prestige! 
And  instead  of  that,  he  was  nothing  but  a  frag- 
ment of  commercial  driftwood,  and  he  couldn't 
afford,  now,  to  buy  her  so  much  as  a  new  hat, 
without  a  corresponding  sacrifice. 

And  yet — involuntarily,  he  stiffened — and 
yet  he'd  be  hanged  if  he  went  back  and  acted 
like  a  whipped  pup.  No,  he  was  supposed  to 
be  a  man,  and  his  friends  and  Anna  believed  in 
him,  an  he'd  be  hanged  if  he  went  back  and 
confessed  anything  at  all,  admitted  anything. 
It  was  all  well  enough  to  look  facts  in  the  face, 
but  it  was  better  still  to  keep  on  fighting  un- 
til the  gong  rang.  And  when  he  was  fighting 
against  the  cant  purity  and  goodness  of  Mr. 
Mix,  and  the  cold  astigmatism  of  Aunt  Mira- 
belle,  he'd  be  hanged  if  he  quit  in  the  first 
round.  No,  even  if  Henry  himself  knew  that 
he  was  beaten,  nobody  else  was  going  to  know 
it,  and  Anna  least  of  all. 

At  five  o'clock,  he  came  blithely  into  his  liv- 
ing-room: and  as  he  saw  Anna's  expression,  his 


E  0  P  E  143 

own  changed  suddenly.  He  had  thought  to 
find  her  in  tears;  but  she  was  coming  to  him 
with  her  usual  welcome,  her  usual  smile. 

Henry  didn't  quite  understand  himself,  but 
he  was  just  the  least  bit  offended,  regardless 
of  his  relief.  You  simply  couldn't  tell  from 
one  minute  to  the  next  what  a  woman  was  going 
to  do.  By  all  precedent,  Anna  should  have 
been  enjoying  hysterics,  which  Henry  had  come 
prepared  to  treat. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you'd  better  cancel  that 
order  for  golden  pheasants,  old  dear."  She 
stopped  short,  and  stared  at  him  curiously,  as 
though  the  remark  had  come  from  a  stranger. 

"We've  got  lamb  chops  tonight,"  said  Anna, 
with  whimsical  relevance,  "and  fresh  straw- 
berry ice-cream.  And  pheasants  are  awfully 
indigestible,  anyway. ' ' 

Henry  returned  her  stare.  "What  have  you 
been  doing  all  the  afternoon — reading  Marcus 
Aurelius?" 

"No,  I  haven't  been  reading  anything  at  all. 
I  tidied  up  the  kitchen.  What  happened  to 
youf" 

There  were  two  different  ways  of  present- 


144  E  0  P  E 

ing  the  narrative,  and  Henry  chose  the  second. 
He  made  it  a  travesty :  and  all  the  time  that  he 
was  talking,  Anna  continued  to  gaze  at  him  in 
that  same  curious,  thoughtful  fashion,  as  if  she 
were  noting,  for  the  first  time,  a  subtle  varia- 
tion in  his  character. 

"And — aren't  you  even  mad?"  she  de- 
manded. "I  thought  you'd  be  furious.  I 
thought  you'd  be  tearing  your  hair  and — and 
even/thing." 

Henry  laughed  explosively.  "Impatience, 
as  I've  pointed  out  so  often  to  Aunt  Mirabelle, 
dries  the  blood  more  than  age  or  sorrow.  Yes, 
I'm  mad,  but  I've  put  it  on  ice.  I'm  trying  to 
work  out  some  scheme  to  keep  us  in  the  running, 
and  not  give  Mix  too  good  an  excuse  to  hoot  at 
us.  No — they  say  it's  darkest  just  before  the 
dawn,  so  Pm  trying  to  fix  it  so  we'll  be  sitting 
on  the  front  steps  to  see  the  sunrise.  Only  so 
far  I  haven 't  had  a  mortal  thought. ' ' 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  she  confided,  "I 
loathed  the  idea  of  our  running  the  Orpheum  on 
Sundays.  Didn't  you!" 

"Naturally.  Also  on  Thursdays,  Saturdays, 
Mondays,  Fridays,  Wednesdays  and  Tuesdays. 


ROPE  145 

But  Sundays  did  sort  of  burrow  a  little  further 
under  my  tough  hide.  And  you  know  that's 
quite  an  admission  for  anybody  that  was 
brought  up  by  Aunt  Mirabelle."  He  smiled 
in  reminiscence.  "She  used  to  make  virtue  so 
darned  scaly  and  repulsive  that  it's  a  wonder 
I've  got  a  moral  left.  As  it  is,  my  conscience 
may  be  all  corrugated  like  a  raisin,  but  I'm 
almost  glad  we  can't  run  Sundays.  That  is,  I 
would  be  if  my  last  remaining  moral  weren't 
going  to  be  so  expensive." 

"Don't  you  think  they'll  probably  change 
that  ordinance  now,  though?  Don't  you  think 
people  will  insist  on  it?  After  today?" 

"Guess  work,"  said  Henry.  "Pure  guess- 
work. But  my  guess  is  that  we're  ditched." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  join  the  Exhibitors 
Association,  and  fight?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  because  that's  just 
what  Mix  and  Aunt  Mirabelle  expect  me  to  do. 
This  campaign  of  theirs  is  impersonal  towards 
everybody  else,  but  it's  slightly  personal 
towards  me.  I  mean,  Aunt  Mirabelle 's  sore  on 
general  principles,  and  Mix  is  sore  because  I 
wouldn't  come  up  and  eat  out  of  his  hand  and 


146  E  0  P  E 

get  myself  sheared.  We  won't  fight.  We'll 
outwit  'em." 

"But  how?" 

"Now  that  question,"  he  said  reproachfully, 
"was  mighty  tactless.  7  don't  know  how. 
But  I  know  I  'm  not  going  to  stick  my  head  over 
the  ramparts  for  'em  to  shoot  at.  I'm  no 
African  Dodger — I'm  an  impresario.  Maybe 
they'll  hit  me  in  the  eye,  all  right,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  give  'em  a  good  cigar  for  it."" 

"I  know,  dear,  but  how  are  we  going  to  make 
up  all  that  tremendous  loss?" 

"Sheer  brilliance,"  said  Henry,  easily, 
"Which  is  what  I  haven't  got  nothing  but,  of. 
So  I'm  banking  on  you.  .  .  .  And  in  the  mean- 
time, let 's  go  ahead  with  the  orgy  of  lamb  chops 
you  were  talking  about.  I'm  hungry." 

They  spent  the  evening  in  a  cheerful  discus- 
sion of  ways  and  means,  during  which  she  was 
continually  impressed  by  Henry's  attitude. 
From  earlier  circumstances  she  had  gathered 
that  when  he  was  under  fire,  his  rash  impulsive- 
ness would  remain  constant,  and  that  only  his 
jocular  manner  would  disappear;  furthermore, 
she  knew  that  in  spite  of  that  manner,  he  was 


E  0  P  E  147 

a  borrower  of  trouble.  And  yet  Henry,  who 
had  a  pretty  legitimate  reason  to  be  bristling 
with  rancour',  sat  and  talked  away  as  assuredly 
as  though  this  hadn't  been  his  doomsday. 

She  left  him,  once,  to  answer  the  telephone, 
and  when  she  came  back,  she  caught  him  off 
guard,  and  saw  his  face  in  repose-.  Henry 
wasn't  aware  of  it;  and  when  he  heard  her 
footsteps,  he  looked  up  with  an  instantaneous 
re-arrangement  of  his  features.  But  Anna  had 
seen,  and  Anna  had  understood ;  she  sensed  that 
Henry,  for  a  generous  purpose,  had  merely 
adopted  a  pose.  Secretly,  he  was  quite  as  tor- 
mented, quite  as  desperate,  as  she  had  ex- 
pected him  to  be. 

Her  heart  contracted,  but  for  Henry's  sake, 
she  closed  her  eyes  to  the  revelation,  and 
resumed  the  discourse  in  the  same  key  which 
Henry  had  set  for  it.  Far  into  the  night  they 
exchanged  ideas,  and  half -blown  inspirations, 
but  when  Henry  finally  arose,  with  the  remark 
that  it  was  time  to  wind  the  clock  and  put  out 
the  cat,  they  had  come  to  no  conclusion  except 
that  something  would  certainly  have  to  be  done 
about  it.  "Oh,  well,"  said  Henry,  indulgently, 


148  K  0  P  E 

"a  pleasant  evening  was  reported  as  having 
been  had  by  all,  and  nothing  was  settled — so  it 
was  just  as  valuable  as  a  Cabinet  Meeting. ' ' 

The  sight  of  the  silver  tea-service,  however, 
sent  him  to  bed  with  renewed  determination. 

In  the  morning,  he  dreaded  to  open  his  news- 
paper, but  when  he  had  read  through  the  story 
twice,  he  conceded  that  it  wasn't  half  as  yellow 
as  he  feared.  No,  it  was  really  rather  conser- 
vative, and  the  photograph  of  him  wasn't 
printed  at  all;  he  read,  with  grim  satisfaction, 
that  another  culprit,  somewhat  more  impetuous, 
had  smashed  the  camera,  and  attempted  to 
stage  a  revival  of  his  success  upon  the  photog- 
rapher. 

He  had  been  fully  prepared  to  find  himself 
singled  out  for  publicity,  and  he  was  greatly 
relieved.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  somewhat 
flippant  mention  of  his  relationship  to  Mira- 
belle,  but  it  wasn't  over-emphasized,  and  alto- 
gether, he  had  no  justification  for  resentment 
— that  is,  at  the  Herald.  The  Herald  had 
merely  printed  the  news;  what  Henry  resented 
was  the  fact. 


EOPE  149 

He  turned  to  the  editorial  page  and  found,  as 
he  had  imagined,  a  solid  column  of  opinion ;  but 
to  his  amazement,  it  made  no  protest  of  yester- 
day's event — on  the  contrary,  it  echoed  Judge 
Barklay.  It  said  half  a  dozen  times,  in  half  a 
dozen  different  ways,  that  a  bad  law  ought  to  be 
repealed,  a  good  law  ought  to  be  preserved,  and 
that  all  laws,  good  or  bad,  as  long"  as  they  were 
written  on  the  books,  ought  to  be  enforced. 
Henry  was  mystified;  for  the  Herald  had 
always  professed  to  be  in  utter  sympathy  with 
the  workingman. 

Later  in  the  day,  however,  he  saw  the  leading 
exhibitor  in  town,  who  winked  at  him.  ' '  Clever 
stuff,  Devereux,  clever  stuff.  'Course,  if  we 
put  up  a  roar,  they'll  say  it's  because  we've  got 
an  ax  to  grind.  Sure  we  have.  But  the 
Herald  wants  the  people — the  people  that  come 
to  our  shows — to  get  up  and  blat.  Then  it 
wouldn't  be  the  League  against  the  Association 
— it  'd  be  the  people  against  the  League,  and  the 
laugh 'd  be  on  the  other  foot." 

"What's  the  betting?" 

"  Search  me.    But  Mayor  Eowland  told  me  if 


150  E  0  P  E 

we  got  up  a  monster  petition  with  a  thousand  or 
two  names  on  it,  he  '11  bring  it  up  to  the  Council. 
We're  puttin'  up  posters  in  the  lobby." 

Henry's  heart  jumped.  "But  suppose  the 
people  don't  sign?" 

"Well  then  we'd  be  out  o'  luck.  But  there's 
other  ways  o'  goin'  at  that  damn  League,  and 
we're  goin'  to  use  all  of  'em.  And  that  re- 
minds me,  Devereux — ain't  it  about  time  for 
you  to  join  the  Association!" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  I  ought  to,  but — you  see, 
you're  going  to  make  things  as  hot  as  you  can 
for  the  League — personalities,  and  all  that,  and 
when  my  aunt  is  president  of  it — " 

"But  great  guns!  What's  she  done  to 
you?" 

"I  know,  but  I  can't  help  that.  You  go 
ahead  and  rip  things  up  any  way  you  want  to, 
but  I'd  better  stay  out.  It  may  be  foolish,  but 
that's  how  I  feel  about  it." 

"It's  your  own  affair.  /  think  you're  too 
blamed  easy,  but  you  suit  yourself.  .  .  .  And 
about  the  big  noise,  why  I  guess  all  we  can  da  is 
wait  and  see  what  happens. ' ' 

Miss.   Starkweather,   who   met   him  on   the 


ROPE  151 

street  that  morning,  told  him  the  same  thing. 
"Some  people,"  she  remarked,  altitudinously, 
''are  always  getting  their  toes  stepped  on, 
aren't  they?  Well,  there's  another  way  to 
look  at  it — the  toes  oughtn't  to  have  been 
there. ' ' 

"Oh,  give  us  time,"  said  Henry,  pleasantly. 
"Even  the  worm  turns,  you  know." 

"Humph!"  said  Aunt  Mirabelle.  "Let  a 
dozen  worms  .do  a  dozen  turns!  I  never 
thought  I'd  see  the  day  when  a  Devereux — 
almost  the  same  thing  as  a  Starkweather — 'd 
figure  in  a  disgrace  such  as  yours.  You've 
heaped  muck  on  your  uncle's  parlour-carpet. 
But  some  day  you  '11  see  the  writing  on  the  wall, 
Henry. ' ' 

He  was  tempted  to  remind  her  of  another  city 
ordinance  against  bill-posting,  but  he  refrained, 
and  saved  it  up  for  Anna. 

"I'll  watch  for  it,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  better.  All  I've  got  to  say  is 
this:  you  just  wait  and  see  what  happens." 

And  then,  to  complete  the  record,  he  got 
identically  the  same  suggestion  from  Bob 
Standish. 


152  E  0  P  E 

"I  suppose,"  said  Standish,  "maybe  you're 
wishing  you  'd  taken  that  check. ' ' 

"Not  that,  exactly — but  I've  thought  about 
it." 

"Strikes  me  that  you're  in  the  best  position 
of  anybody  in  town,  Henry.  You've  got  a 
following  that'll  see  you  through,  if  it's 
humanly  possible. 

"Sounds  like  passing  the  hat,  doesn't  it?" 

"Oh,  no.  And  the  side  that  scores  first 
doesn't  always  win  the  game,  either — I  dare 
say  you've  noticed  it.  It'll  come  out  all  right 
— you  just  wait  and  see  what  happens." 

Henry  waited,  and  he  saw.  And  to  Henry 's 
dismay,  and  to  the  Mayor's  chagrin,  and  to 
Miss  Mirabelle  Starkweather's  exceeding  com- 
placence, nothing  happened  at  all. 

The  public  petition,  which  had  been  adver- 
tised as  "monstrous,"  caught  hardly  five  hun- 
dred names,  and  two  thirds  of  them  were  Mr. 
A.  Mutt,  Mr.  O.  Howe  Wise,  Mr.  O.  U.  Kidd, 
and  similar  patronymics,  scribbled  by  giggling 
small  boys.  The  blue-law  was  universally  un- 
popular, and  no  doubt  of  it,  but  the  citizenry 
hesitated  to  attack  it;  the  recent  landslide  for 


EOPE  153 

prohibition  showed  an  apparent  sentiment 
which  nobody  wanted  to  oppose — Why,  if  a 
man  admitted  that  he  was  in  favour  of  Sunday 
tolerance,  his  friends  (who  of  course  were  go- 
ing through  exactly  the  same  mental  rapids) 
might  put  him  down  in  the  same  class  with 
those  who  still  mourned  for  saloons.  Each 
man  waited  for  his  neighbour  to  sign  first,  and 
the  small  boys  giggled,  and  filled  up  the  lists. 
Besides,  there  was  a  large  amusement  park  just 
beyond  the  city  line,  and  the  honest  workingman 
proceeded  to  pay  his  ten-cent  fare,  and  double 
the  profit  of  the  park. 

The  Exhibitors  Association  put  up  its  fists 
to  the  Mayor,  and  the  Mayor  proposed  a  pub- 
lic hearing,  with  the  Council  in  attendance. 
At  this  juncture  the  Reform  League  sent  a 
questionnaire  to  each  Councillor,  and  to  each 
member  of  the  Association.  The  phraseology 
was  Socratic  (it  was  the  product  of  Mr.  Mix's 
genius)  and  if  any  one  answered  Yes,  he  was 
snared :  if  he  said  No,  he  was  ambushed,  and  if 
he  said  nothing  he  was  cooked.  It  reminded 
the  Mayor  of  the  man  who  claimed  that  in  a 
debate,  he  would  answer  every  question  of  his 


154  ROPE 

adversary  with  a  simple  No  or  Yes — and  the 
first  question  was:  "Have  you  stopped  beat- 
ing your  wife?" 

The  Exhibitors  held  a  meeting  behind  closed 
doors,  and  gave  out  the  statement  that  nothing 
was  to  be  gained  by  a  public  hearing.  But 
they  launched  a  flank  attack  on  the  Council  only 
to  discover  that  the  Council  was  wide  awake, 
and  knew  that  its  bread  was  buttered  on  one 
side  only. 

"We  are  listening,"  said  the  Chairman,  with 
statesmanlike  dignity,  "for  the  voice  of  the 
people,  and  so  far  we  haven't  heard  a  peep.  It 
looks  as  if  they  don't  want  you  fellows  to  run 
Sunday's,  don't  it?" 

The  spokesman  of  the  Exhibitors  cleared  his 
throat.  "Statistics  prove  that  every  Sunday, 
an  average  of  six  thousand  people — " 

' '  That 's  all  right.  We  've  seen  your  petition. 
And  Mr.  Mutt  and  Mr.  Kid  and  most  of  the 
rest  of  your  patrons  don't  seem  to  be  registered 
voters.  How  about  it?" 

The  Council  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  the 
spokesman  retreated  in  discomfiture. 

For  several  days,  Henry  was  fairly  beseiged 


E  0  P  E  155 

by  his  friends,  who  joked  him  about  his  arrest, 
and  then,  out  of  genuine  concern,  wanted  to 
know  if  his  prospects  were  seriously  damaged. 
To  each  interrogatory,  Henry  waved  his  hand 
with  absolute  nonchalance.  As  far  as  he  knew, 
only  six  people  were  in  the  secret — himself,  his 
wife,  Judge  Barklay,  Standish,  Mr.  Archer  and 
Aunt  Mirabelle — and  he  wasn't  anxious  to  in- 
crease the  number.  His  aunt  might  not  have 
believed  it,  but  this  was  more  on  her  account 
than  on  his  own. 

"Lord,  no,"  said  Henry,  casually.  "Don't 
worry  about  me.  I'm  only  glad  there's  some 
news  for  the  Herald.  It  was  getting  so  dry  you 
had  to  put  cold  cream  on  it  or  it'd  crack." 

By  the  time  that  Judge  Barklay  returned 
from  his  vacation,  the  subject  had  even  slipped 
away  from  the  front  page  of  the  newspapers. 
The  flurry  was  over.  And  out  of  a  population 
of  fifty  thousand,  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  whom 
were  normal-minded  citizens,  neither  ultra-con- 
servative nor  ultra-revolutionary,  that  tiny 
fraction  which  composed  the  Ethical  Reform 
League  had  stowed  its  propaganda  down  the 
throats  of  the  overwhelming  majority. 


156  ROPE 

The  Judge  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Or- 
ganization," he  said.  "They've  got  a  leader, 
and  speakers,  and  a  publicity  bureau.  That's 
all.  I  hear  they  're  going  to  use  it  to  boom  Mix 
for  a  political  job.  But  you  wait — wait,  and 
keep  on  paying  out  the  rope." 

"That's  all  I've  got  left  to  pay  out,"  said 
Henry,  amiably. 

"Aren't  you  doing  pretty  well,  considering?" 

Henry  nodded.  "We're  doing  great  busi- 
ness— I  mean,  anybody  else  would  think  so. 
About  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  week  net,  for  the 
first  three  weeks.  And  Anna's  salting  away  a 
hundred  and  ten  of  it.  Every  morning  I  draw 
a  clean  handkerchief,  and  a  dime  for  dissipa- 
tion, and  she  keeps  a  clutch  on  the  rest." 

"Hm!  A  hundred  and  fifty.  That's  good 
money,  Henry.*' 

"Well,  that's  the  only  kind  we  take.  But 
you  can  see  for  yourself  what  this  thing's  done 
to  us.  We  ought  to  be  averaging  two  twenty- 
five.  And  we'd  have  done  it,  too." 

The  Judge  appeared  contrite.  "I'm  afraid 
you're  blaming  me  for  bad  advice,  Henry." 

"No,  sir.    If  I  blamed  anybody,   I'd  just 


E  0  P  E  157 

blame  myself  for  taking  it.  But  I  don't.  You 
see,  even  if  I  fall  down  on  the  first  prize,  I've 
got  a  pretty  good  business  under  way.  Eight 
thousand  a  year." 

"Would  you  keep  on  with  it?" 

"I'd  think  it  over.  It  isn't  particularly  joy- 
ous, but  it  sure  does  pay  the  rent.  Oh,  I  sup- 
pose I'd  try  to  sell  it,  if  I  could  get  a  price  for 
it,  but  Bob  says  I  couldn't  expect  a  big  one,  be- 
cause so  much  of  the  trade  sort  of  belongs  to 
its — and  wouldn't  necessarily  patronize  the 
chap  that  bought  me  out.  He  tells  me  it  was 
worth  twenty  when  I  took  it,  and  thirty  now, 
and  if  it  weren  't  for  this  law,  it  would  be  worth 
fifty.  That 's  all  due  to  the  improvements,  and 
you  advised  me  to  put  'em  in,  and  you  engi- 
neered the  mortgage.  So  I'm  not  huffy  at  you. 
Hardly." 

"Still,  you  want  the  big  prize  if  you  can  get 
it.  ...  Notice  what  Mix  is  giving  out  to  the 
papers  ?  He  '11  hang  himself  yet,  and  if  he  does, 
you  won't  be  too  far  behind  to  catch  up. 
That 's  a  prophecy.  But  by  George,  I  can 't  help 
feeling  that  Mix  isn't  in  that  outfit  for  his 
health.  It  just  don't  smell  right,  somehow." 


158  ROPE 

The  Beform  League  had  jubilantly  explained 
to  Mr.  Mix  that  he  was  a  liberator  and  a  saviour 
of  humanity  from  itself,  and  Mr.  Mix  had 
deftly  caught  whatever  bouquets  were  batted 
up  to  him.  He  had  allowed  the  fragrance  of 
them  to  waft  even  as  far  as  the  Herald  office,  to 
which  he  sent  a  bulletin  every  forty-eight  hours. 
Mr.  Mix's  salary  was  comforting,  his  expense 
accounts  were  paid  as  soon  as  vouchers  were 
submitted,  he  was  steadily  advancing  in  Miss 
Starkweather's  good  books,  and  he  considered 
himself  to  be  a  very  clever  man  indeed. 

At  the  very  least,  he  was  clever  enough  to 
realize  that  his  position  was  now  strategically 
favourable,  and  that  as  long  as  he  moved 
neither  forward  nor  backward,  he  was  in  no 
danger  from  any  source.  He  had  a  living 
salary,  and  he  was  saving  enough  out  of  it  to  re- 
duce his  indebtedness ;  in  a  year  he  could  snap 
his  fingers  at  the  world.  Furthermore,  he 
could  see  no  possibility  of  legislating  himself 
out  of  his  job  before  that  time — certainly  not  if 
he  played  his  cards  craftily,  and  didn't  push 
his  success  too  far.  And  by  the  end  of  the 


B  0  P  E  159 

year,  he  could  select  a  future  to  fit  the  circum- 
stances. 

For  the  time  being,  however,  it  seemed  advis- 
able to  Mr.  Mix  to  make  haste  slowly;  he  had 
turned  an  impending  personal  catastrophe  into 
a  personal  triumph,  but  the  triumph  could  be 
spoiled  unless  he  kept  it  carefully  on  ice.  The 
failure  of  the  public  to  rise  up  and  flay  the 
League  had  lifted  Mr.  Mix  into  a  position  of 
much  prominence,  and  conveyed  the  very 
reasonable  supposition  that  he  was  individually 
powerful.  When  a  man  is  supposed  to  possess 
power,  he  can  travel  a  long  distance  on  the 
effect  of  a  flashing  eye,  and  an  expanded  chest ; 
also,  it  is  a  foolhardy  man  who,  regardless  of 
his  reputation,  engages  to  meet  all-comers  in 
their  own  bailiwick. 

He  had  committed  himself  to  the  preparation 
of  an  amendment  to  the  ordinance,  which  should 
be  more  definite,  and  more  cerulean,  than  the 
original,  but  he  knew  that  if  he  pressed  it  too 
soon,  it  might  topple  back  and  crush  him.  The 
people  could  be  led,  but  they  couldn  't  be  driven. 
And  therefore  Mr.  Mix,  who  had  naturally 


160  ROPE 

made  himself  solid  with  the  reactionaries  and 
the  church-going  element  (except  those  liberals 
who  regarded  him  as  an  officious  meddler),  and 
who  had  actually  succeded  in  being  mentioned 
as  the  type  of  man  who  would  make  a  good 
Mayor,  or  President  of  Council,  followed  out  a 
path  which,  unless  his  geography  of  common- 
sense  was  wrong,  could  hardly  end  at  a 
precipice. 

He  became,  overnight,  a  terror  to  the  boys 
and  young  men  who  rolled  dice  in  the  city  parks, 
and  on  the  alley  sidewalks  in  the  business  dis- 
trict; and  this  was  held  commendable  even  by 
the  church-goers  who  played  bridge  at  the 
Citizens  Club  for  penny  points.  He  headed  a 
violent  onslaught  upon  the  tobacconists  who 
sold  cigarettes  to  minors,  and  this  again  was 
applauded  by  those  who  in  their  youth  had 
avoided  tobacco — because  it  was  too  expensive 
— and  smoked  sweet-fern  and  cornsilk  behind 
the  barn.  He  nagged  the  School  Board  until 
there  went  forth  an  edict  prohibiting  certain 
styles  of  dress ;  and  the  mothers  of  several  un- 
attractive maidens  wrote  letters  to  him,  and 
called  him  a  Christian.  The  parents  of  other 


ROPE  161 

girls  also  wrote  to  him,  but  he  didn't  save  the 
letters.  He  made  a  great  stir  about  the 
Sanitary  Code,  and  the  Pure  Food  regulations, 
and  although  the  marketmen  began  to  murmur 
discontentedly — and  why,  indeed,  should  the 
grocery  cat  not  sleep  in  a  bed  of  her  own 
choosing;  and  why  should  not  the  busy, 
curious,  thirsty  fly  have  equal  right  of  access 
with  any  other  insect! — yet  Mr.  Mix  contrived 
to  hold  himself  up  to  the  public  as  a  live  re- 
former, but  not  a  radical,  and  to  the  League  as 
a  radical  but  not  a  rusher-in  where  angels  fear 
to  tread.  It  required  the  equilibrium  of  a 
tight-rope  walker,  but  Mr.  Mix  had  it.  In- 
deed, he  felt  as  pleased  with  himself  as  though 
he  had  invented  it.  And  he  observed,  with 
boundless  satisfaction,  that  the  membership  of 
the  League  was  steadily  increasing,  and  that 
the  Mayoralty  was  mentioned  more  frequently. 
He  was  aware,  of  course,  that  a  reform  candi- 
date is  always  politically  anemic,  but  he  was 
hoping  that  by  the  injection  of  good-govern- 
ment virus,  he  might  be  strong  enough  to  catch 
a  regular  nomination,  to  boot,  and  to  run  on  a 
fusion  ticket.  From  present  indications,  it 


162  ROPE 

wasn't  impossible.  And  Mr.  Mix  smirked  in 
his  mirror. 

Mirabelle  said,  with  a  rolling-up  of  her  mental 
shirt-sleeves :  '  *  Well,  now  let 's  get  after  some- 
thing drastic.  I've  heard  lots  of  people  say 
you  ought  to  get  elected  to  office ;  well,  show  'em 
what  you  can  do.  Of  course,  what  we've  been 
doing  is  all  right,  but  it's  kind  of  small 
potatoes." 

Mr.  Mix  looked  executive.  " Mustn't  go  too 
fast,  Miss  Starkweather.  Can't  afford  to  make 
people  nervous." 

" Humph!  People  that  don't  feel  guilty, 
don't  feel  nervous.  I  say  it's  about  time  to 
launch  something  drastic.  Next  thing  for  us 
to  do  is  to  make  the  League  a  state-wide 
organization,  and  put  through  a  Sunday  law 
with  teeth  in  it.  That  amusement  park's  got 
to  go.  Maybe  we'd  better  run  over  to  the 
capital  and  talk  to  the  Governor." 

Mr.  Mix  was  decisively  opposed,  but  he 
couldn't  withstand  her.  He  had  a  number  of 
plausible  arguments,  but  she  talked  them  into 
jelly,  and  eventually  dragged  him  to  an  inter- 


ROPE  163 

view  with  the  Governor.  When  it  was  over, 
she  beamed  victoriously. 

"There!  Didn't  I  tell  you  so?  He's  with 
us." 

Mr.  Mix  repressed  a  smile.  "Yes,  he  said  if 
we  draft  a  bill,  and  get  it  introduced  and  passed, 
he'll  sign  it." 

"Well,  what  more  could  he  say?" 

He  wanted  to  ask,  in  turn,  what  less  could  be 
said,  but  he  contained  himself.  "You  know," 
he  warned  her,  "as  soon  as  we  put  out  any 
really  violent  propaganda,  we're  going  to  lose 
some  of  our  new  members,  and  some  of  our 
prestige." 

"Good!    Weed  out  the  dead-wood." 

"That's  all  right,  but  after  what  we've  done 
with  the  food  laws  and  stopping  the  sale  of 
cigarettes  to  boys,  and  so  on,  people  are  looking 
at  us  as  a  switch  to  chastise  the  city.  But  we 
don't  want  them  to  look  at  us  as  a  cudgel.  And 
this  state  law  you've  got  in  mind  hits  too  many 
people." 

"Let  it  hit  'em." 

"Well,   anyway,"  he  pleaded,   "there's   no 


164  ROPE 

sense  in  going  out  and  waving  the  club  so  every- 
body 'a  scared  off.  We  ought  to  take  six  months 
or  a  year,  and  do  it  gradually.  And  we  ought 
to  pass  a  model  ordinance  here  first,  before  we 
talk  about  statutes.  I'd  suggest  a  series  of 
public  lectures,  and  a  lot  of  educational 
pamphlets  for  a  start.  I'll  write  them  my- 
self." 

She  was  impatient,  but  she  finally  yielded. 
"Well,  we'll  see  how  it  works.  Go  ahead  and 
doit." 

"I  will — I'll  have  the  whole  thing  done  by 
late  this  spring." 

"Not  'till  then?"  she  protested,  vigorously. 

Mr.  Mix  shook  his  head.  "Perfect  the  or- 
ganization first,  and  begin  to  fight  when  we've 
got  all  our  ammunition.  It'll  take  me  three 
months  to  get  that  ready.  So  far,  all  we  Ve  had 
is  a  battle,  but  now  we're  planning  a  war.  I 
want  to  be  prepared  in  every  detail  before  we 
fire  a  single  more  shot." 

She  regarded  him  admiringly.  "Sounds 
reasonable  at  that.  You  do  it  your  own  way. ' ' 

He  was  feeling  a  warm  sense  of  power,  and 
yet  he  had  his  moments  of  uncertainty,  did  Mr. 


ROPE  165 

Mix,  for  even  with  his  genius  for  hypocrisy,  he 
sometimes  found  it  difficult  to  be  a  hypocrite  on 
both  sides  of  the  same  proposition.  His  status 
was  satisfactory,  at  the  moment,  but  he  mustn't 
let  Mirabelle  get  the  bit  in  her  teeth,  and  run 
away  with  him.  As  soon  as  ever  she  got  him  on 
record  as  favouring  the  sort  of  legislation 
which  she  herself  wanted,  Mr.  Mix's  power  was 
going  to  dwindle.  And  Mr.  Mix  adored  his 
power,  and  he  hated  to  think  of  losing  it  by 
too  extravagant  propaganda. 

There  were  moments  when  he  wished  that 
Henry  were  more  belligerent,  so  that  special 
measures  could  be  taken  against  him,  or  that 
Mirabelle  were  more  seductive,  so  that  Mr.  Mix 
could  be  more  spontaneous.  He  knew  that  he 
was  personally  responsible  for  the  present 
enforcement;  he  believed  that  because  of  it, 
Henry  Devereux  didn't  have  a  Chinaman's 
chance;  he  knew  that  if  Mirabelle  got  her 
legacy,  she  would  have  Mr.  Mix  to  thank  for  it. 
But  Henry  was  too  cheerful,  and  Mirabelle  was 
too  coy,  and  the  two  facts  didn't  co-ordinate. 

Certainly  there  was  no  finesse  in  hailing 
Mirabelle  as  an  heiress  until  Henry's  failure 


166  ROPE 

was  more  definitely  placarded.  To  be  sure,  she 
had  plenty  of  money  now,  and  she  was  spending 
it  like  water,  but  he  knew  that  it  included  the 
income  from  the  whole  Starkweather  estate. 
She  probably  had — oh,  a  hundred  thousand  or 
more  of  her  own.  And  that  wasn't  enough. 
Yes,  it  was  time  for  Mr.  Mix  to  think  ahead ;  he 
had  identified  himself  so  thoroughly  with  the 
League  that  he  couldn't  easily  withdraw,  and 
Mirabelle  still  held  his  note.  Of  course,  if  the 
League  could  furnish  him  with  a  stepping-stone 
to  the  Mayoralty,  or  the  presidency  of  Council, 
Mr.  Mix  didn't  care  to  withdraw  from  it  any- 
way; nor  would  he  falter  in  his  allegiance  as 
long  as  he  had  a  chance  at  an  heiress.  He 
wished  that  Henry  would  show  fight,  but  Henry 
hadn't  even  joined  the  Exhibitors  Association. 
It  was  so  much  easier  to  fight  when  the  other 
fellow  offered  resistance.  Henry  merely 
smiled;  you  couldn't  tell  whether  he  were  de- 
spondent or  not.  But  if  he  wouldn't  -fight, 
there  was  always  the  thin  possibility  that  he 
might  be  satisfied  with  his  progress.  And  that 
would  be  unfortunate  for  Mr.  Mix. 


ROPE  167 

There  was  something  else ;  suppose  Mirabelle 
got  her  legacy,  and  Mr.  Mix  volunteered  to 
share  it  with  her.  He  was  reasonably  confident 
that  she  would  consent;  her  symptoms  were 
already  on  the  surface.  But  how,  in  such 
event,  could  Mr.  Mix  regulate  the  habits  which 
were  so  precious  to  him?  How  could  he  hide 
his  fondness  for  his  cigar,  and  his  night-cap,  his 
predilection  for  burlesque  shows  and  boxing 
bouts  and  blonde  stenographers?  It  was  diffi- 
cult enough,  even  now,  and  he  had  eaten  enough 
trochees  and  coffee  beans  to  sink  a  frigate,  and 
he  had  been  able  only  once  to  get  away  to 
New  York — "to  clean  up  his  affairs."  How 
could  he  manage  his  alternative  self  when  Mira- 
belle had  him  under  constant  and  intimate 
supervision? 

Still,  all  that  could  be  arranged.  For  twenty 
years  he  had  gone  to  New  York,  regularly,  on 
irregular  business  and  not  a  soul  in  town  was 
any  the  wiser;  it  was  simply  necessary  to  dis- 
cover what  "business"  could  summon  him  if  he 
were  married,  independent,  and  a  professional 
reformer.  Mr.  Mix,  who  was  always  a  few 


168  ROPE 

lengths  ahead  of  the  calendar,  procured  the  ad- 
dresses of  a  metropolitan  anti-cigarette  con- 
ference, and  a  watch-and-ward  society,  and 
humbly  applied  by  mail  for  membership.  An 
alibi  is  exactly  the  opposite  of  an  egg;  the 
older  it  is,  the  better. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN  Henry  told  his  wife  that  he  was 
counting  on  her  for  brilliant  ideas,  he 
meant  the  compliment  rather  broadly;  for  he 
couldn't  imagine  how  a  girl  brought  up  as  Anna 
had  been  brought  up  could  supply  any  practical 
schemes  for  increasing  the  patronage  of  a 
motion-picture  theatre.  Indeed,  when  she 
brought  him  her  first  suggestion  he  laughed, 
and  kissed  her,  and  petted  her,  and  while  he 
privately  appraised  her  as  a  dear  little 
dreamer,  he  told  her  that  he  was  ever  so  much 
obliged,  but  he  was  afraid  that  her  plan 
wouldn't  work. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "you  haven't  had  very 
much  experience  in  this  business — " 

"Methuselah!"  she  retorted,  and  Henry 
laughed  again. 

"That's  no  way  for  a  wife  to  talk.  When  I 
mention  business  you're  supposed  to  look  at  me 
with  ill-concealed  awe.  But  to  get  down  to 

169 


170  K  0  P  E 

brass  tacks,  I  Ve  watched  the  audiences  for  four 
or  five  weeks,  and  I  am  beginning  to  size  them 
up.  And  I  don't  believe  you  can  put  over  any 
grand-opera  stuff  on  'em." 

"It  doesn't  make  the  least  bit  of  difference 
whether  it's  grand-opera  or  the  movies,  my 
lord.  It'll  work." 

He  shook  his  head  dubiously.  "Well,  even 
suppose  it  would,  I  still  don't  like  it.  You 
don't  make  friends  simply  to  use  'em  for  your 
own  purposes." 

' '  Why,  of  course  not.    But  after  you  Ve  made 

'em,  you're  silly  not  to  let  'em  help  you  if  they 

can.    And  if  they  want  to.    And  if  they  don't 

then  they  aren't  really  your  friends,  are  they? 

It's  a  good  way  to  find  out." 

Henry  frowned  a  little.  "What  makes  you 
think  it  would  work?" 

"Human  nature.  .  .  .  Now  you  just  think  it 
all  over  from  the  beginning.  All  our  friends 
come  to  the  Orpheum  some  night,  don't  they? 
They'd  go  to  some  picture,  anyway,  but  they 
come  to  the  Orpheum  for  two  reasons — one's 
because  it's  a  nice  house  now,  and  the  other's 
because  it's  ours.  And  sometimes  they're  in 


E  0  P  E  171 

time  to  get  good  seats,  and  sometimes  they 
aren't.  Well,  we  aren't  asking  any  special 
favour  of  them;  we're  just  making  sure  that  if 
they  all  come  the  same  night,  they'll  have  the 
same  seats,  time  after  time.  And  they'll  like 
it,  Henry." 

1  'But  to  be  brutally  frank,  I  still  don't  see 
where  we  get  off  any  better. ' ' 

"You  wait.  ...  So  we  sell  for  just  one 
particular  performance — say  the  8.45  one,  one 
night  a  week — season  tickets.  Boxes,  loges, 
and  some  of  the  orchestra  seats.  And  it  would 
be  like  opera ;  if  they  couldn  't  always  come,  they 
couldn't  return  their  tickets,  but  they  could 
give  them  to  somebody  else.  And  that  night 
we'd  have  special  music,  and — " 

"Confirming  today's  conversation,  including 
brutal  frankness  as  per  statement,  I  still  don't 
see — " 

"Why,  you  silly.  It'll  be  Society  Night! 
And  I  don't  care  whether  it's  movies  or 
opera,  if  you  make  a  thing  fashionable,  then  it 
gets  everybody — the  fashionable  ones,  and  then 
the  ones  who  want  to  be  fashionable,  and  finally 
the  ones  who  know  they  haven't  a  ghost  of  a 


172  R  0  P  E 

chance,  and  just  want  to  go  and  look  at  the 
others ! ' ' 

Henry  laboured  with  his  thoughts.  "Well, 
granted  that  we  could  herd  the  hill  crowd  in 
there,  and  all  that,  I  still  don't — " 

"Why,  Henry  darling!  Because  we'd  make 
it  Monday  night — that's  our  worst  night  in  the 
whole  week,  ordinarily — and  have  all  reserved 
seats  that  night,  and  then  of  course  we'd  raise 
the  prices ! '  ' 

"Oh!"  said  Henry.  "Now  I  get  it.  I 
thought  it  was  just  swank." 

"And  it's  true — it's  true  that  if  you  get 
people  to  thinking  there's  something  exclusive 
about  a  shop,  or  a  hotel,  or  a  club,  or  even  a 
theatre,  they  '11  pay  any  amount  to  get  in.  And 
our  friends  don't  care  when  they  come,  and 
they'll  love  all  sitting  together  in  the  boxes,  or 
even  in  the  orchestra." 

"Who  was  Methuselah's  wife?"  asked 
Henry,  irrelevantly. 

"Why,  he  had  several,  didn't  he?" 

"Cleopatra,  Portia,  Minerva,  Nemesis,  and 
the  Queen  of  Sheba,"  said  Henry,  "and  you're 


E  0  P  E  173 

all  five  in  one  package.  I  retract  everything 
I  said.  And  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  kiss  the 
hem  of  your  garment,  to  show  I'm  properly 
humbled,  why — in  plain  English,  that  idea  has 
a  full  set  of  molars ! ' ' 

He  left  the  mechanics  of  it  to  Anna,  who 
merely  conferred  with  Bob  Standish,  and  then 
with  one  of  her  girl-friends,  and  sent  out  a  little 
circular  among  the  high  elect;  but  even  Anna 
was  amazed  at  the  prompt  response.  The  re- 
sponse was  due  partly  to  friendship,  and  partly 
to  convenience,  but  whatever  the  reason,  Anna 
brought  in  checks  for  a  hundred  season-tickets, 
and  turned  the  worst  night  of  the  week  into  the 
best.  As  she  had  sensed,  because  the  insiders 
of  society  were  willing  to  commit  themselves  to 
Monday,  the  outsiders  would  have  paid  four 
times,  instead  of  merely  double,  to  be  there,  too. 
It  was  socially  imperative. 

"That  boosts  us  up  another  fifty  a  week," 
said  Henry  appreciatively.  "And  we  must 
have  a  thousand  in  the  bank,  haven't  we?  ... 
Say,  Anna,  this  bread  and  cheese  racket  is  all 
right  when  you  can't  afford  anything  else,  but 


174  EOPE 

honestly,  won't  you  just  get  a  cook?  I  don't 
care  if  she's  rotten,  but  to  think  of  you  giving 
those  dishes  a  sitz-bath  twice  a  day — " 

"Not  yet,  dear.  We  aren't  nearly  out  of  the 
woods.  Society  Night's  helped  a  lot,  but  we 
aren't  averaging  over  two  hundred  and  twenty 
yet,  are  we?  That's  eighty  a  week  short.  So 
if  we  don't  think  up  some  more  schemes,  why, 
what  we're  saving  now '11  have  to  be  our  capital 
next  year." 

"But  when  a  man  has  this  much  income — " 

"Yes,  and  you  owe  ten  thousand  on  a 
mortgage,  and  the  tax  bills  haven't  come  in  yet, 
and  you'll  have  an  income  tax  to  pay.  .  .  . 
We  '11  save  awhile  longer. ' ' 

It  was  greater  heroism  than  he  realized,  for 
she  had  never  lost,  for  a  single  instant,  her  ab- 
horrence of  the  kitchen ;  nor  was  she  willing  to 
cater  to  her  prejudice,  and  work  with  only  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  She  had  two  principal  de- 
fences— she  wore  rubber  gloves,  and  she  sang — 
but  whenever  she  had  to  put  her  hands  into 
greasy  water,  whenever  she  scrubbed  a  kettle, 
whenever  she  cleaned  the  sink,  a  series  of  cold 
chills  played  up  and  down  her  spine  as  fitfully 


ROPE  175 

as  a  flame  plays  on  the  surface  of  alcohol.  She 
detested  every  item  which  had  to  do  with  that 
kitchen;  and  yet,  to  save  Henry  the  price  of  a 
cook — now  seventy  dollars  a  month — she  sacri- 
ficed her  squeamishness.  There  were  nights 
when  she  simply  couldn't  eat — she  couldn't 
draw  a  cloud  over  her  imagination,  and  forget 
what  the  steak  had  looked  like,  and  felt  like,  un- 
cooked. There  were  six  days  in  seven  when  the 
mere  sight  of  blackened  pots  and  pans  put  her 
nerves  on  edge.  But  she  always  remembered 
that  Henry  was  supposed  to  be  irresponsible, 
and  that  a  penny  in  hand  is  worth  two  in  pros- 
pect; so  that  she  sang  away,  and  tried  to 
dispel  her  thoughts  of  the  kitchen  by  thinking 
about  the  Orpheum. 

It  was  in  early  December  that  she  conceived 
the  Bargain  Matinee,  which  wasn't  the  ordinary 
cut-price  performance,  but  the  adaptation  of 
an  old  trick  of  the  department  stores.  The 
Tuesday  and  Friday  matinees  were  the  poorest 
attended,  so  that  Anna  suggested — and  Henry 
ordered — that  beginning  at  half  past  four  on 
Tuesdays  and  Fridays,  the  fifty-cent  seats  were 
reduced  at  the  rate  of  a  cent  a  minute.  In  other 


176  K  0  P  E 

words,  the  Orpheum  challenged  the  public  to 
buy  its  entertainment  by  the  clock;  a  person 
who  came  a  quarter  hour  late  saved  fifteen 
cents,  and  the  bargain-hunter  who  could  find  a 
vacant  seat  at  twenty  minutes  past  five  could 
see  the  last  two  reels  for  nothing.  It  didn't 
bring  in  a  tremendous  revenue,  but  it  caught 
the  popular  fancy,  and  it  was  worth  another 
thirty  dollars  a  week. 

And  Anna  discovered,  too,  that  the  unfinished 
second  story  of  the  theatre  had  possibilities. 
She  had  it  plastered  and  gaily  papered,  she  put 
up  a  frieze  of  animals  from  Noah's  ark;  she 
bought  toys  and  games  and  a  huge  sand-box — 
and  for  a  nominal  fee,  a  mother  could  leave  her 
angel  child  or  squalling  brat,  as  the  case  might 
be,  in  charge  of  a  kindergarten  assistant,  and 
watch  the  feature  film  without  nervousness  or 
bad  conscience.  There  was  no  profit  in  it,  as 
a  department,  but  it  was  good  advertising,  and 
helped  the  cause. 

In  the  meantime  Henry,  who  at  this  season 
of  the  year  would  ordinarily  have  gone  to  Lake 
Placid  for  the  winter  sports  or  to  Pinehurst 
for  golf,  was  watching  the  rise  and  fall  of  the 


ROPE  177 

box-office  receipts  as  eagerly  as  he  would  have 
watched  the  give  and  take  of  match-play  in 
tournament  finals.  He  kept  his  records  as 
perfectly,  and  studied  them  with  as  much  zest, 
as  once  he  had  kept  and  studied  the  records  of 
the  First  Ten  in  the  tennis  ranking,  and  of  all 
teams  and  individuals  in  first-class  polo.  To 
Henry,  the  Orpheum  had  long  ceased  to  be  a 
kitchen;  he  had  almost  forgotten  that  a  few 
months  ago,  his  soul  had  been  corrugated  with 
goose-flesh  at  the  prospect  of  this  probation. 
Since  August,  he  had  done  more  actual  work 
than  in  all  his  previous  life,  and  the  return  from 
it  was  approximately  what  his  allowance  had 
been  from  Mr.  Starkweather,  but  Henry  had 
caught  the  spark  of  personal  ambition,  and  he 
wouldn't  stop  running  until  the  race  was  over. 
He  wouldn't  stop,  and  furthermore  he  wouldn't 
think  of  stopping.  But  now  and  then  he 
couldn't  help  visualizing  his  status  when  he  did 
stop,  or  was  ruled  off  the  track. 

He  hadn't  quite  recovered,  yet,  from  his 
surprise  at  the  continuing  reaction  of  his 
friends.  He  was  deeply  touched  by  the  realiza- 
tion that  even  those  who  were  most  jocular  were 


178  E  0  P  E 

regarding  him  with  new  respect.  Instead  of 
losing  caste,  he  seemed  to  have  risen  higher 
than  before ;  certainly  he  had  never  been  made 
to  feel  so  sure  of  his  place  in  the  affection  of  his 
own  set.  And  almost  more  satisfactory  than 
that,  the  older  men  in  the  Citizens  Club  were 
treating  him  with  increasing  friendliness, 
whereas  in  the  past,  they  had  treated  him 
rather  as  an  amusing  young  comedian,  to  be 
laughed  at,  but  not  with.  And  finally,  he  was 
flattered  by  the  growing  intimacy  with  Mr. 
Archer. 

"A  year  ago,"  Mr.  Archer  once  said  to  him, 
"I  used  to  think  you  were  a  spoiled  brat,  Henry. 
Now  I  think  you're — rather  a  credit  to  your 
uncle." 

Henry  grinned.  "And  I  used  to  think  some 
very  disrespectful  things  about  you,  and  now 
I  'd  rather  have  you  on  my  side  than  anybody  I 
know.  I  must  have  been  a  raw  egg." 

*  *  You  '11  win  out  yet,  my  boy — Ted  Mix  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding." 

"Oh,  sure!"  said  Henry,  optimistically.  "I 
don't  gloom  much — only  fifteen  minutes  a  day 
in  my  own  room.  I  got  the  habit  when  I  was 


ROPE  179 

taking  my  correspondence  course  on  efficiency." 
Even  in  these  occasional  sessions  of  gloom, 
however,  (and  his  estimate  of  time  was  fairly 
accurate)  he  never  felt  any  acute  antagonism 
either  towards  his  aunt  or  towards  Mr.  Mix, 
he  never  felt  as  though  he  were  in  competition 
with  them.  He  was  racing  against  time,  and  it 
was  the  result  of  his  own  individual  effort 
which  would  go  down  on  the  record.  As  to  his 
aunt,  she  had  been  perfectly  consistent;  as  to 
Mr.  Mix,  Henry  didn't  even  take  the  trouble  to 
despise  him.  He  carried  over  to  business  one 
of  his  principles  in  sport — if  the  other  fellow 
wanted  so  badly  to  win  that  he  was  willing  to 
cheat,  he  wanted  victory  more  than  Henry  did, 
and  he  was  welcome  to  it.  After  the  match  was 
over,  Henry  might  volunteer  to  black  his  eye 
for  him,  but  that  was  a  side  issue. 

Mr.  Mix  had  said  to  him,  sorrowfully,  at  the 
Citizens  Club:  "One  of  the  prime  regrets  of 
my  life,  Henry,  was  that  you — the  nephew  of 
my  old  friend — should  have  suffered — should 
have  been  in  a  position  to  suffer — from  the 
promotion  of  civic  integrity." 

Henry    laughed    unaffectedly.     "Yes,"    he 


180  E  O  P  E 

said,  "it  must  have  raised  perfect  Cain  with 
you." 

"I  don't  like  your  tone,  Henry.  Do  you 
doubt  my  word?" 

"Doubt  it  I  After  I've  just  sympathized 
with  the  awful  torture  you  must  have  gone 
through?  .  .  .  Tell  me  something;  what's  all 
this  gossip  I  hear  about  you  and  Aunt  Mira- 
belle?  Somebody  saw  you  buggy-riding  last 
Sunday.  Gay  young  dog ! ' ' 

Mr.  Mix  grew  red.  "Buggy-riding!  Miss 
Starkweather  was  kind  enough  to  take  me  out 
to  the  lake  in  her  car. '  * 

"That's  buggy-riding,"  said  Henry,  affably. 
"Buggy-riding's  a  generic  term.  Don't  blush. 
I  was  young  myself,  once." 

Mr.  Mix  fought  down  his  anger.  "You're 
very  much  of  a  joker,  Henry.  It  seems  to  run 
in  the  family.  Your  uncle — '* 

"Yes,  and  Aunt  Mirabelle,  too." 

"What?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Henry.  "Aunt  Mirabelle 's 
a  joker,  too.  She  advised  me  not  to  run  the 
Orpheum  in  the  first  place;  she'd  rather  have 
had  me  trade  it  and  go  into  something  more  re- 


E  0  P  E  181 

spectable,  and  profitable.    Doesn't  that  strike 
you  as  funny?    It  does  me." 

Mentally,  Mr.  Mix  bit  his  lip,  but  outwardly 
he  was  ministerial.  "I'm  afraid  you're  too 
subtle  for  me. ' ' 

"I  was  afraid  of  that  myself." 

"Isn't  business  good?"  His  voice  was  so- 
licitous. 

Henry  was  reminded  of  what  Judge  Barklay 
had  twice  expressed,  and  for  a  casual  experi- 
ment, he  tried  to  plumb  the  depths  of  Mr.  Mix's 
interest. 

"Oh,  with  a  few  new  schemes  I've  got,  I 
guess  I'll  clean  up  eleven  or  twelve  thousand 
this  year." 

Mr.  Mix  shook  his  head.     "As  much  as  that f ' ' 

Henry  inquired  of  himself  why,  to  accompany 
a  question  which  was  apparently  one  of  mere 
rhetorical  purport,  Mr.  Mix  should  have  shaken 
his  head.  The  action  had  been  positive,  rather 
than  interrogative. 

"Easy,"  said  Henry.  "Come  in  next  week, 
and  see  how  we're  going  to  turn  'em  away 
I've  got  a  new  pianist ;  you'll  want  to  hear  him. 
He  looks  like  a  Sealyhan  terrier,  but  he's  got  a 


II 
it 


182  ROPE 

repertoire  like  a  catalogue  of  phonograph  rec- 
ords. I  dare  the  audience  to  name  anything  he 
can't  play  right  off  the  bat — songs,  opera, 
Gregorian  chants,  sonatas,  jazz — and  if  he 
can't  play  it,  the  person  that  asked  for  it  gets  a 
free  ticket." 

"So — to  use  a  colloquialism — you're  going 
very  strong?" 

To  use  another  colloquialism,"  said  Henry, 
we  fairly  reek  with  prosperity,  and  we're  go- 
ing to  double  our  business.  That  is,  unless  you 
Leaguers  stop  all  forms  of  amusement  but  tit- 
tat-toe  and  puss-in-the-corner. " 

Mr.  Mix  smiled  feebly.  "One  expects  to  be 
rallied  for  one's  convictions." 

Henry  nodded,  engagingly.  "I  certainly  got 
rallied  enough  for  mine.  That  justice  of  the 
peace  rallied  me  for  twenty-five  to  start  with, 
and  followed  it  up  with  twenty  more.  .  .  .  But 
if  you  want  my  opinion,  Mr.  Mix,  you  '11  lay  off 
trying  to  promote  civic  integrity  with  a  meat- 
ax.  All  you  did  with  that  Sunday  row  was  to 
take  a  lot  of  money  away  from  the  picture 
houses,  and  give  it  to  the  trolley  company  and 
the  White  City — white  when  it  was  painted. 


E  0  P  E  183 

And  if  you  don't  behave,  I  won't  vote  for  you 
next  election." 

Mr.  Mix  ignored  the  threat.  "Come  to  a 
meeting  of  the  League  some  time,  Henry,  and 
we'll  give  you  a  chance  to  air  your  views." 

He  reported  the  interview  to  Anna,  and  she 
seemed  to  find  in  it  the  material  for  reflection. 
She  asked  Henry  if  he  thought  that  Mr.  Mix 
was  deliberately  making  up  to  Mirabelle. 
Henry  reflected,  also. 


In  January,  Henry  had  an  interview  with  Mr. 
Archer,  who  went  over  his  books  with  a  fine- 
tooth  comb,  and  praised  him  for  his  accomplish- 
ment. 

"But  it  only  goes  to  show  how  the  best  inten- 
tions in  the  world  can  get  all  twisted  up," 
said  Mr.  Archer,  gravely.  "Here  you've  done 
what  you  were  supposed  to  do — you've  done  it 
better  than  you  were  supposed  to  do  it — and 
then  because  of  that  cussed  enforcement  that 
neither  your  uncle  nor  I  ever  dreamed  about, 
you  're  liable  to  get  punished  just  as  badly  as  if 


184  E  0  P  E 

you'd  made  a  complete  failure.  It's  a  shame, 
Henry,  it 's  a  downright  shame  1 ' ' 

''We're  packing  'em  in  pretty  well,"  said 
Henry.  "I  figured  out  that  if  we  sold  every 
seat  at  every  performance  we  'd  collect  fourteen 
hundred  a  week  gross.  We're  actually  taking 
in  about  eight  fifty.  That's  a  local  record,  but 
it  isn't  good  enough." 

"No,  you  seem  to  be  shy  about — three  thou- 
sand to  date.  You've  got  to  make  that  up,  and 
hit  a  still  higher  average  for  the  next  seven 
months,  and  I'm  blessed  if  7  can  see  how  you're 
going  to  do  it." 

'  *  Oh,  well,  I  '11  have  the  theatre.  That 's  some- 
thing." 

"Yes,  it'll  bring  you  a  good  price.  But  not 
a  half  of  what  you  should  have  had.  One 
thing,  Henry,  I  wish  your  uncle  could  know  how 
you  're  taking  it.  As  far  as  I  know,  you  haven 't 
swung  a  golf  club  or  sat  a  horse  for  six  months, 
have  you?" 

"Oh,  shucks!  .  .  .  When  Uncle  John  went  to 
a  ball  game,  he  always  liked  to  see  a  man  run 
like  fury  on  a  fly  ball.  Nine  time  out  of  ten 
an  outfielder 'd  catch  it  and  the  batter 'd  get  a 


E  0  P  E  185 

big  hoot  from  the  grand-stand.  The  other  time 
he'd  drop  it,  and  the  batter 'd  take  two  bases. 
That's  all  I'm  doing  now.  Playing  the  percent- 
age. And  golf  takes  too  much  time — even  if 
there  weren't  snow  on  the  ground — and  stable 
feed's  so  high  I  can't  afford  it.  The  fool  horse 
would  cost  more  to  feed  than  I  do  myself." 

"And  even  if  the  percentage  beats  you, 
you've  got  something  you  never  had  before, 
Henry,  and  that's  the  solid  respect  of  your 
community.  Everybody  knows  you  hated  this 
job.  Everybody's  back  of  you." 

"Up  on  the  farm,"  said  Henry,  thoughtfully. 
"There  was  a  field-hand  with  a  great  line  of 
philosophy.  Some  of  it  was  sort  of  crude,  but 
— one  day  Uncle  John  was  saying  something 
about  tough  things  we  all  have  to  do,  and  this 
fellow  chimed  in  and  said:  'Yes,  sir,  every 
man's  got  to  skin  his  own  skunk.'  " 

Mr.  Archer  smiled  and  nodded.  "Your  year 
won 't  have  been  wasted,  Henry.  And  when  it 's 
over,  if  you  want  to  get  out  of  the  picture  busi- 
ness, you'll  find  that  you  can  get  a  dozen  first- 
rate  jobs  from  men  who  wouldn't  have  taken 
you  in  as  their  office-boy  a  season  ago.  .  .  . 


186  ROPE 

Give  my  love  to  your  wife,  Henry,  and  tell  her 
for  me  that  I  'm  proud  of  you. ' ' 

"I'll  tell  her,"  said  Henry,  "but  7  won't  be 
proud  until  I  've  nailed  that  skin  over  the  barn- 
door.'* 


On  his  way  out,  he  dropped  in  for  a  moment 
to  see  Bob  Standish.  Bob  was  at  his  old  tricks 
again ;  and  while  his  competitors  in  realty,  and 
insurance,  and  mortgage  loans,  made  the  same 
mistake  that  once  his  classmates  and  instruc- 
tors and  the  opposing  ends  and  tackles  had 
made,  and  argued  that  his  fair  skin  and  his  in- 
nocent blue  eyes,  his  indolent  manner  and  his 
perfection  of  dress  all  evidenced  his  lack  of  wit 
and  stamina,  he  had  calmly  proceeded  to  chase 
several  of  those  competitors  out  of  business, 
and  to  purchase  their  good-will  on  his  own 
terms.  It  was  popularly  said,  in  his  own  circle, 
that  Standish  would  clear  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  his  first  year. 

He  winked  lazily  at  Henry,  and  indicated  a 
chair.  '  *  Set ! ' '  said  Standish.  ' '  Glad  you  came 


ROPE  187 

in.  Two  things  to  ask  you.  Want  to  sell? 
Want  to  rent?" 

"If  you  were  in  my  shoes,  would  you  sell, 
Bob?" 

"I  can  get  you  twenty-eight  thousand." 

"That's  low." 

"Sure,  but  everybody  knows  you've  got  a 
clientele  that  nobody  else  could  get.  Are  you 
talking?" 

"I — guess  not  just  yet." 

"Want  to  rent?  I  just  had  a  nibble  for  small 
space ;  you  could  get  fifty  a  month  for  that  attic 
you  're  using  for  a  nursery. ' ' 

"I — hardly  think  so,  Bob.  That's  a  pet 
scheme  of  Anna's,  and  besides,  we  need  it.  It's 
good  advertising. ' ' 

His  friend's  eyes  were  round  and  childlike. 
"Made  any  plans  for  the  future,  Henry?  Know 
what  you  '11  do  if  you  stub  your  toe  ? '  > 

"Sell  out  and  strike  you  for  a  job,  I  guess." 

"Don't  believe  it  would  work,  old  man." 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

"One  pal  boss  another?    Too  much  family." 

Henry  looked  serious.  "I'm  sorry  you  think 
so.  7  wouldn't  have  kicked." 


188  ROPE 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  give  you  a  job, 
old  dear.  I  like  you  too  well  to  bawl  you  out. 
But  maybe  we'll  do  business  together  some 
other  way." 

As  he  drove  his  tin  runabout  homeward, 
Henry  was  unusually  downcast.  He  didn't 
blame  Standish — Standish  had  showed  himself 
over  and  over  to  be  Henry's  best  friend  on 
earth.  But  it  was  dispiriting  to  realize  how 
Standish  must  privately  appraise  him.  Henry 
recalled  the  justification,  and  grew  red  to  think 
of  the  ten  years  of  their  acquaintance — ten 
years  of  continuous  achievement  for  Standish, 
and  only  a  few  months  of  compulsory  display 
for  himself.  But  he  wished  that  Standish 
hadn't  thrown  in  that  last  remark  about  doing 
business  together  some  other  way.  That 
wasn't  like  Bob,  and  it  hurt.  It  was  too  infer- 
nally commercial. 

He  found  the  apartment  deserted.  His  shout 
of  welcome  wasn't  answered:  his  whistle,  in  the 
private  code  which  everybody  uses,  met  with 
dead  silence.  Henry  hung  up  his  hat  with  con- 
siderable pique,  and  lounged  into  the  living- 
room.  What  excuse  had  Anna  to  be  missing  at 


E  0  P  E  189 

the  sacred  hour  of  his  return?  Didn't  she 
know  that  the  happiest  moment  of  his  whole 
day  was  when  she  came  flying  into  his  arms  as 
soon  as  he  crossed  the  threshold?  Didn't  she 
know  that  as  the  golden  pheasants  fled  fur- 
ther and  further  into  the  thicket  of  unreality, 
the  more  active  was  his  need  of  her?  He  won- 
dered where  she  had  gone,  and  what  had  kept 
her  so  late.  Was  this  a  precedent,  and  had  the 
first  veneer  of  their  companionabilty  worn  off 
so  soon — for  Anna? 

A  new  apprehension  seized  him,  and  he  hur- 
ried from  room  to  room  to  see  if  instead  of 
censuring  Anna,  he  ought  to  censure  himself. 
There  were  so  many  accidents  that  might  have 
happened  to  her.  Women  have  been  burned  so 
severely  as  to  faint:  they  have  drowned  in  a 
bathtub:  they  have  fallen  down  dumb-waiter 
shafts:  they  have  been  asphyxiated  when  the 
gas-range  went  out.  And  to  think  that  only  a 
moment  ago,  he  had  been  vexed  with  her.  The 
sight  of  each  room,  once  so  hideously  common- 
place, now  so  charming  with  Anna's  artistry 
and  the  work  of  her  own  hands — her  beautiful 
hands  which  ought  to  be  so  cared  for — filled 


190  ROPE 

him  with   contrition   and   fresh  nervousness. 

No,  she  had  escaped  these  tragedies — yet  she 
was  missing.  Missing,  but  now  half  an  hour 
late.  And  downtown  there  were  dangerous 
street-crossings,  and  dangerous  excavations, 
and  reckless  motorists.  .  .  .  Once  in  a  while  a 
structural-iron  worker  dropped  a  rivet  from  the 
seventh  story;  and  there  were  kidnappers 
abroad.  .  .  .  The  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and 
Henry  dropped  noiselessly  into  a  chair,  and 
caught  up  day-bef ore-yesterday's  paper. 

He  greeted  her  tenderly,  but  temperately. 
"Well,  where 've  you  been?" 

She  had  to  catch  her  breath.  "Oh,  my  dear, 
I've  had  the  most  wonderful  time!  I've — oh, 
it's  been  perfectly  gorgeous!  And  I've  got  it! 
I've  got  it!" 

He  had  never  seen  her  keyed  to  such  a  pitch, 
and  manlike,  he  attempted  to  calm  her  instead 
of  rising  to  her  own  level.  "Got  what?  St. 
Vitus'  dance?" 

"No!  The  scheme!  The  scheme  we  were 
looking  for ! ' ' 

Henry  discarded  his  paper.    ' '  Shoot  it. ' ' 

She  waved  him  off.     "Just  wait  'till  I  can 


E  0  P  E  191 

breathe.  ...  Do  you  remember  what  you  told 
me  a  long  time  ago  about  a  talk  you  had  with 
your  aunt?  And  she  said  bye-and-bye  you'd 
see  the  writing  on  the  wall?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I've  seen  it  I" 

"Whereabouts?" 

"Wait.  .  .  .  And  remember  your  talking  to 
Mr.  Mix,  when  he  said  you  ought  to  go  to  a 
League  meeting  and  air  your  views  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  went!" 

He  gazed  at  her.    "You  what?" 

She  nodded  repeatedly.  "It  was  a  big  pub- 
lic meeting.  I  was  going  past  Masonic  Hall, 
and  I  saw  the  sign.  So  I  went  in  ...  oh,  it  was 
so  funny.  The  man  at  the  door  stared  at  me 
as  if  I'd  been  in  a  bathing  suit,  or  something, 
and  he  said  to  me  in  a  sort  of  undertaker's 
voice:  'Are  you  one  of  us?'  And  I  said  I 
wasn't,  but  I  was  thinking  about  it,  and  he 
said  something  about  the  ninety  and  nine,  and 
gave  me  a  blank  to  fill  out — only  I  didn't  do  it: 
I  used  it  for  something  lots  better:  I'll  show 
you  in  a  minute — and  then  I  sat  down,  and 


192  ROPE 

pretty  soon  Mr.  Mix  got  up  to  talk, — and  you 
should  have  seen  the  way  your  aunt  looked  at 
him;  as  if  he'd  been  a  tin  god  on  wheels — and 
he  bragged  about  what  the  League  was  doing, 
and  how  it  had  already  purified  the  city,  but 
that  was  only  a  beginning — and  what  a  lot  more 
it  was  going  to  do — oh,  it  was  just  ranting — 
but  everybody  clapped  and  applauded — only 
the  man  next  to  me  said  it  was  politics  instead 
of  reform — and  then  he  went  on  to  talk  about 
that  ordinance  147,  and  what  it  really  meant, 
and  how  they  were  going  to  use  it  like  a  bludg- 
eon over  the  heads  of  wrong-doers,  and  all 
that  sickening  sort  of  thing — and  the  more  he 
talked  the  more  I  kept  thinking.  .  .  .  My  dear, 
all  that  ordinance  says — at  least,  all  they  claim 
it  says — is  that  we  can't  keep  open  on  Sunday 
for  profit,  isn  't  it  ? " 

Henry  was  a  trifle  dizzy,  but  he  retained  his 
perspective.  "Yes,  but  who'd  want  to  keep 
open  for  charity?" 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  exultation.  "But 
that's  exactly  what  we  want  to  do!  That's 
what  we  are  going  to  do.  And  they  can't  pre- 
vent us,  either.  We're  going  to  keep  open  for 


ROPE  193 

a  high,  noble  purpose,  and  not  charge  a  cent. 
And  the  more  I  thought,  and  Mr.  Mix  bragged, 
the  more  I  ...  so  I  wrote  it  all  down  on  the 
back  of  that  blank  the  man  gave  me — and  there 
it  is — and  /  think  it's  perfectly  gorgeous — 
even  if  it  is  mine.  Now  who's  Methuselah's 
wife?" 

On  the  back  of  the  blank  there  was  written, 
in  shaky  capitals,  what  was  evidently  intended 
as  the  copy  for  an  advertisement.  She  watched 
Henry  eagerly  as  he  read  it,  and  when  at  first 
she  could  detect  no  change  in  his  expression,  her 
eyes  widened,  and  her  lips  trembled  impercep- 
tibly. Then  Henry,  half-way  down  the  page,  be- 
gan to  grin:  and  his  grin  spread  and  spread 
until  his  whole  face  was  abeam  with  joy.  He 
came  to  the  last  line,  gasped,  looked  up  at 
Anna,  and  suddenly  springing  towards  her,  he 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  waltzed  her  madly 
about  the  living-room. 

When  he  released  her,  her  hat  was  set  at  a 
new  and  rakish  angle,  and  she  had  lost  too  many 
hair-pins,  but  to  Henry  she  had  never  looked 
half  so  adorable. 

"Of  course,"  he  panted,  "everybody  else '11 


194  K  0  P  E 

do  it  too,  as  soon  as  we  've  showed  'em  how— 
"What — what  difference  does  that  make!" 
"That's  right,  too.  ..."    He  fairly  doubled 
himself  with  mirth.    "Can't  you  just  see  Mix's 
face  when  he  sees  this  writing  on  the  wall — of 
the  Orpheum?" 

"I — I've  been  seeing  it  all  afternoon. 
When  can  we  start  ? ' ' 

"Bight  away.  Now."  He  stopped,  rigid. 
"No,  we  won't  either.  No  we  won't.  First, 
we've  got  to  see  the  Judge — we've  got  to  make 
sure  there's  no  flaw  in  it.  And  then — we  won't 
let  anybody  copy  us ! " 

"But  how  can  you  stop  them?" 
Henry  was  electric.  ' '  What 's  a  movie  theatre 
worth  on  Sunday?  When  they  can't  give  a 
show  anyway?  I'll  rent  every  house  in  town 
for  every  Sunday  from  now  'till  August!  I'll 
have  to  go  slow,  so  nobody '11  suspect.  It  may 
take  a  month,  or  two  months,  but  what  do  we 
care?  We'll  play  it  sure.  It  won't  cost  too 
much,  and  we've  got  the  cash  in  the  bank. 
We've — "  He  paused  again,  and  looked  down 
at  her,  and  his  voice  fell  a  semi-tone.  "I  don't 
know  where  I  get  all  this  we  stuff.  I'd  have 


E  0  P  E  195 

spent  two-thirds  of  it  by  this  time.  You  're  the 
one  that's  saved  it — and  earned  it  too,  by  gosh ! " 
He  lifted  her  hands,  and  while  she  watched  him, 
with  shining  eyes,  he  deliberately  kissed  the  tip 
of  each  of  her  ten  fingers.  "That's  where  the 
money's  come  from/'  said  Henry,  clearing  his 
throat.  "Out  of  dish-water.  Only  tonight 
we're  going  out  to  a  restaurant  and  eat  our- 
selves logy,  and  you  won't  wash  a  damn  dish. 
It's  my  party." 


CHAPTER  XI 

MISS  MIRABELLE  STARKWEATHER 
lifted  up  her  cup  of  tea,  and  with  the  little 
finger  of  her  right  hand  stiffly  extended  to  Mr. 
Mix's  good  health.  Mr.  Mix,  sitting  upright 
in  a  gilded  chair  which  was  three*  sizes  too 
small  for  him,  bowed  with  a  courtliness  which 
belonged  to  the  same  historical  period  as  the 
chair,  and  also  drank.  Over  the  rim  of  his  cup, 
his  eyes  met  Mirabelle's. 

" Seems  to  me  you've  got  on  some  kind  of  a 
new  costume,  haven't  you?"  asked  Mr.  Mix  gal- 
lantly. " Looks  very  festive  to  me — very/' 

For  the  first  time  since  bustles  went  out  of 
fashion,  Miss  Starkweather  blushed ;  and  when 
she  blushed,  she  was  quite  as  uncompromising 
about  it  as  she  was  about  everything  else.  It 
wasn't  that  she  had  a  grain  of  romance  in  her, 
but  that  she  was  confused  to  be  caught  in  the 
act  of  flagging  a  beau;  to  hide  her  confusion, 
she  rose,  and  went  over  to  the  furthest  win- 

196 


E  0  P  E  197 

dow  and  flung  it  wide  open.  The  month  was 
February,  and  the  air  was  chill  and  raw,  but 
Mirabelle  could  think  of  no  other  pretext  for 
turning  her  back  and  cooling  her  cheeks.  And 
yet,  although  she  would  have  perjured  herself  a 
thousand  times  before  she  would  admit  it,  she 
felt  a  certain  strange,  spring-like  pleasure  to 
know  that  Mr.  Mix  was  only  pretending  to  be 
deceived. 

"Oh,  my,  no,"  she  said  over  her  shoulder. 
"I've  had  this  since  the  Flood." 

Mr.  Mix  had  also  risen,  to  hand  her  back  to 
her  seat,  and  now  he  stood  looking  down  at  her. 
She  was  wearing  a  gown  of  rustling,  plum-col- 
oured taffeta,  with  cut-steel  buttons ;  and  at  her 
belt  there  was  a  Dutch  silver  chatelaine  which 
had  been  ultra-smart  when  she  had  last  worn  it. 
Vaguely,  she  supposed  that  it  was  ultra-smart 
today,  and  that  was  the  reason  she  had  attached 
it  to  her.  From  the  chatelaine  depended  a  sil- 
ver pencil,  a  gold  watch,  a  vinaigrette  with  gold- 
enamelled  top,  and  a  silver-mesh  change-purse. 
At  her  throat,  she  had  a  cameo,  and  on  her  left 
hand,  an  amethyst  set  in  tiny  pearls.  Mr.  Mix, 
finishing  the  inventory,  seated  himself  and  be- 


198  E  O  P  E 

gan  to  tap  one  foot  on  the  floor,  reflectively. 
He  was  a  man  of  perception,  and  he  knew  war- 
paint when  he  saw  it. 

" Makes  you  look  so  much  younger,"  said 
Mr.  Mix,  and  sighed  a  little. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Miss  Starkweather, 
and  to  dissemble  her  pleasure,  she  put  an  extra- 
sharp  edge  on  her  voice.  "I  don't  wear  clothes 
to  make  me  look  younger;  I  wear  'em  to  cover 
me  up." 

' '  That 's  more  than  I  can  say  for  the  present 
generation." 

"Ugh!"  said  Miss  Starkweather.  "Don't 
speak  of  it !  Shameless  little  trollops !  But  the 
worst  comment  you  could  make  about  this  pres- 
ent day  is  that  men  like  it.  They  like  to  see 
those  disgraceful  get-ups.  They  marry  those 
girls.  Beyond  me." 

Mr.  Mix  sneezed  unexpectedly.  There  was 
a  cold  draught  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  but  as 
Mirabelle  said  nothing  about  closing  the  win- 
dow, he  hesitated  to  ask  permission.  "I've 
always  wondered  what  effect  it  would  have  had 
on  your — public,  career — if  you  hadn't  pre- 
ferred to  remain  single. " 


B  0  P  E  199 

"My  opinions  aren't  annuals,  Mr.  Mix. 
They're  hardy  perennials." 

"I  know,  but  do  you  think  a  married  woman 
ought  to  devote  herself  entirely  to  public  af- 
fairs I  Shouldn  't  she  consider  marriage  almost 
a  profession  in  itself  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that.  Duty's 
duty." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure.  But  would  marriage  have 
interfered  with  your  career?  Would  you  have 
let  it?  Or  is  marriage  really  the  higher  duty 
of  the  two!" 

"There's  something  in  that,  Mr.  Mix.  I 
never  did  believe  a  married  woman  ought  to  be 
in  the  road  all  the  time." 

"It  was  a  question  of  your  career,  then?" 

Mirabelle  put  down  her  cup.  "Humph!  No, 
it  wasn't.  Bight  man  never  asked  me." 

Mr.  Mix's  mind  was  cu  tiptoe.  "But  your 
standards  are  so  lofty — naturally,  they  would 
be."  He  paused.  "I  wonder  what  your  stand- 
ard really  is.  Is  it — unapproachable?  Or  do 
you  see  some  good  in  most  of  us?" 

Mirabelle  sat  primly  erect,  but  her  voice  had 
an  unusual  overtone.  * '  Oh,  no,  I  'm  not  a  ninny. 


200  E  0  P  E 

But  good  husbands  don't  grow  on  goose-berry- 
bushes.  If  I'd  ever  found  a  man  that  had  the 
right  principles,  and  the  respect  of  everybody, 
and  not  too  much  torn-foolishness — a  good, 
solid,  earnest  citizen  I  could  be  proud  of — ' 

Mr.  Mix  interpolated  a  wary  comment.  "You 
didn't  mention  money." 

She  sniffed.  "Do  I  look  like  the  kind  of  a 
woman  that  would  marry  for  money  ? ' ' 

"And  in  all  these — I  mean  to  say,  haven't 
you  ever  met  a  man  who  complied  with  these 
conditions  ? ' r 

She  made  no  intelligible  response,  but  as  Mr. 
Mix  watched  her,  he  was  desperately  aware 
that  his  moment  had  come.  His  next  sentence 
would  define  his  future. 

He  was  absolutely  convinced,  through  his  pri- 
vate source  of  information,  that  Henry  was  due 
to  fall  short  of  his  quota  by  four  or  five  thou- 
sand dollars;  nothing  but  a  miracle  could  save 
him,  and  Mr.  Mix  was  a  sceptic  in  regard  to 
miracles.  He  was  positive  that  in  a  brief  six 
months  Miss  Starkweather  would  receive  at 
least  a  half  million;  and  Mr.  Mix,  at  fifty-five, 
wasn't  the  type  of  man  who  could  expect  to 


E  0  P  E  201 

have  lovely  and  plutocratic  debutantes  thrown 
at  his  head.  He  believed — and  his  belief  was 
cousin  to  a  prayer — that  Mirabelle  was  ab- 
sorbed in  reform  only  because  no  one  was  ab- 
sorbed in  Mirabelle.  Indeed,  she  had  implied, 
a  few  moments  ago,  that  marriage  would  cramp 
her  activities;  but  it  was  significant  that  she 
hadn't  belittled  the  institution.  Perhaps  if  she 
were  skilfully  managed,  she  might  even  be 
modernized.  Certainly  she  had  been  content, 
so  far,  to  be  guided  by  Mr.  Mix's  conservatism. 
He  hoped  that  he  was  right,  and  he  trusted  in 
his  own  strategy  even*  if  he  were  wrong.  And 
every  day  that  he  continued  moderate  in  his 
public  utterances,  and  in  his  actions,  he  was  a 
day  nearer  to  the  golden  ambition  of  an  elec- 
tive office. 

He  was  threatened  with,  vertigo  but  he  mas- 
tered himself,  and  drew  a  long,  long1  breath  in 
farewell  to  his  bachelorhood. 

"You  have  heartened  me  more  than  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  with  ecclesiastical  sober- 
ness. "  Because — it  has  been  my  poverty — 
which  has  kept  me  silent."  He  bent  forward. 
" Mirabelle,  am  I  the  right  man?"  Almost  by 


202  K  0  P  E 

sheer  will-power,  he  rose  and  came  to  her,  and 
took  her  hand.  She  shrank  away,  in  maiden 
modesty,  but  her  fingers  remained  quiescent. 
Mr.  Mix  sneezed  again,  and  stooped  to  kiss  her 
cheek,  but  Mirabelle  avoided  him. 

"No/'  she  said,  with  a  short  laugh.  "That 
don't  signify — I  don't  approve  of  it  much.'* 
She  wavered,  and  relented,  "Still,  I  guess  it's 
customary — Theodore. ' ' 


Before  he  left  her,  they  had  staged  their  first 
altercation — it  could  hardly  be  called  a  quarrel, 
because  it  was  too  one-sided.  Mirabelle  had 
asked  him  without  the  slightest  trace  of  shyness, 
to  telephone  the  glad  tidings  to  the  Herald;  and 
of  a  sudden,  Mr.  Mix  was  afflicted  with  self- 
consciousness.  Unfortunately,  he  couldn't  give 
a  valid  reason  for  it;  he  couldn't  tell  her  that 
illogically,  but  instinctively,  he  wanted  to  keep 
the  matter  as  a  looked  secret — and  especially 
to  keep  it  locked  from  Henry  Devereux — until 
the  minister  had  said :  Amen.  He  admitted  to 
himself  that  this  was  probably  a  foolish  whim, 


E  0  P  E  203 

a  needless  precaution,  but  nevertheless  it  ob- 
sessed him,  so  that  he  tried  to  argue  Mirabelle 
away  from  the  Herald.  His  most  cogent  argu- 
ment was  that  the  announcement  might  weaken 
their  position  in  the  League — the  League  might 
be  too  much  interested  in  watching  the  romance 
to  pay  strict  attention  to  reform. 

"  Humph!"  said  Mirabelle.  "I'm  not 
ashamed  of  being  congratulated.  Are  you? 
But  if  you're  so  finicky  about  it,  I'll  do  the  tele- 
phoning myself. ' ' 

Whereupon  Mr.  Mix  went  back  to  his  room, 
and  drank  two  highballs,  and  communed  with 
himself  until  long  past  midnight. 

In  the  morning,  with  emotions  which  puzzled 
him,  he  turned  to  the  society  column  of  the 
Herald;  and  when  he  saw  the  flattering  para- 
graph in  type, — with  the  veiled  hint  that  he 
might  be  the  next  candidate  for  Mayor,  on  a  re- 
form ticket — he  sat  very  still  for  a  moment  or 
two,  while  his  hand  shook  slightly.  No  back- 
ward step,  now!  His  head  was  in  the  noose. 
He  wondered,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  self-efface- 
ment, what  people  would  say  about  it.  One  thing 
— they  wouldn't  accuse  him  of  the  truth.  No- 


204  E  0  P  E 

body  but  Mr.  Mix  himself  knew  the  whole  truth 
— unless  perhaps  it  were  Henry  Devereux. 
Henry  had  developed  a  knowing  eye.  But 
Henry  didn't  count — Henry  was  beaten  al- 
ready. Still,  if  Henry  should  actually  come  out 
and  accuse  Mr.  Mix  of — why,  what  could  Henry 
accuse  him  of?  Simply  marrying  for  money? 
If  it  didn't  make  any  difference  to  Mirabelle, 
it  certainly  didn't  to  Mr.  Mix.  And  what  booted 
the  rest  of  the  world  ?  Why  should  he  concern 
himself  with  all  the  petty  spite  and  gossip  of  a 
town  which  wasn't  even  progressive  enough  to 
have  an  art  museum  or  a  flying  field,  to  say 
nothing  of  a  good  fight-club?  Let  'em  gos- 
sip. .  .  .  But  just  the  same,  he  wished  that 
Mirabelle  had  been  willing  to  keep  the  engage- 
ment a  secret.  Mr.  Mix:  was  sure  to  encounter 
Henry,  once  in  a  while,  at  the  Citizens  Club,  and 
he  didn't  like  to  visualize  Henry's  smile. 

He  was  in  the  act  of  tossing  away  the  paper 
when  his1  attention  was  snatched  back  by  a  half- 
page  advertisement;  in  which  the  name  of  the 
Orpheum  Theatre  stood  out  like  a  red  flag.  Mr. 
Mix  glanced  at  it,  superciliously,  but  a  moment 
later,  his  whole  soul  was  strung  on  it. 


ROPE  205 

THE  ORPHEUM 

Educational  Motion  Pictures 

FREE !    FREE !     FREE ! 

Every  Sunday  afternoon  and  evening 

ESPECIALLY  HIGH-CLASS  ENTERTAINMENT 

of  instructive  and  educational  features 

With  Sacred  Music 
ABSOLUTELY  FREE 

to  all  those  who  present  at  the  door  ticket-stubs  from 
the  previous  week's  performances  (bargain  matinees 
excepted)  showing  a  total  expenditure  of  Three 
Dollars. 

IN  OTHER  WORDS 

Two  people  coming  twice  during  the  week,  in  75  cent 
seats,  come  FREE  Sunday 

Three  people  coming  twice  during  the  week,  in  50 
cent  seats,  come  FREE  Sunday 

A  PURELY  VOLUNTARY  COLLECTION 
will  be  taken  up  and  divided  between 

The  Associated  Charities 

The  Starving  Children  of  Belgium  and 

The  Chinese  Famine  Fund 

This  Sunday 


206  E  0  P  E 

THE  SWORDMAKER'S  SON— an  absorbing  drama 

of  Biblical  days 

Next  Sunday 

BEN-HUR,  in  seven  reels 

NO  ADMISSION  FEE  BEING  CHARGED,  AND 
ALL  VOLUNTARY  CONTRIBUTIONS  BEING  DE- 
VOTED TO  CHARITY,  THIS  ENTERTAINMENT 
DOES  NOT  FALL  WITHIN  ANY  CITY  ORDI- 
NANCE PROHIBITING  SUNDAY  PERFORM- 
ANCES 

THE  ORPHEUM 
Motion  Pictures 

Mr.  Mix,  goggle-eyed,  jumped  for  the  tele- 
phone, and  called  the  City  Hall,  but  as  soon 
as  the  Mayor  was  on  the  wire,  Mr.  Mix  wrestled 
down  his  excitement,  and  spoke  in  his  embassy 
voice.  "  Hello — Bowland'/  This  is  Mix.  I  want 
to  ask  you  if  you  Ve  seen  an  ad  of  the  Orpheum 
Theatre  in  this  morning's  paper?  .  .  .  Well, 
what  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it?" 

The  Mayor  answered  him  in  a  single  word: 
Mr.  Mix  started,  and  gripped  the  receiver  more 
tightly.  "Nothing!  .  .  .  Why,  I  don't  quite 
get  you  on  that.  ...  It's  an  open  and  shut 


ROPE  207 

proposition — No,  I  most  certainly  am  not  try- 
ing to  make  a  pun ;  I  'm  calling  you  up  in  my  of- 
ficial capacity.  That's  the  most  flagrant,  bare- 
faced attempt  to  evade  a  law — Why,  an  idiot 
could  see  it!  It's  to  drive  the  crowd  into  the 
Orpheum  during  the  week,  so  that — " 

He  listened,  with  increasing  consternation. 
"Who  says  it  isn't  a  violation?  Who?  The 
City  Attorney?"  Mr.  Mix  was  pale;  and  this 
was  quite  as  uncommon  as  for  his  fiancee  to 
blush.  "When  did  he  say  so?  ...  What's 
that?  What's  his  grounds?  .  .  .  Repeat  it,  if 
you  don't  mind — Practically  a  charitable  per- 
formance by  invitation — " 

"Why,  sure,"  said  the  Mayor.  He  realized 
perfectly  that  Mr.  Mix  had  the  League  and 
another  thousand  people  of  small  discernment 
behind  him,  but  the  Mayor  didn't  want  to  be 
re-elected,  and  did  want  to  retire  from  politics. 
"The  Orpheum  doesn't  say  a  fellow  that  comes 
Sunday  has  got  to  prove  lie  spent  the  money 
for  the  tickets,  does  it?  Anybody  that's  got 
the  stubs  can  come.  They're  just  as  much  in- 
vitations as  if  they  were  engraved  cards  sent 
around  in  swell  envelopes.  If  you've  got  one 


208  E  0  P  E 

— whether  you  paid  for  the  invitation  or  not,  or 
if  you  got  it  in  the  mail  or  picked  it  up  on  the 
street,  you  can  go  on  in.  And  as  long's  no 
money's  taken  in  over  the  counter,  the  City  At- 
torney says  it's  0.  K.  Of  course,  you  can  peti- 
tion the  Council,  if  you  want  to." 

Mr.  Mix  was  licking  his  lips  feverishly. 
"I'm  obliged  to  you  for  your  advice.  We  will 
petition  the  Council — I'll  have  it  signed,  sealed 
and  delivered  by  noon  today.  .  .  .  And  if  that 
don't  do,  we'll  apply  for  an  injunction.  .  .  . 
And  we'll  carry  this  to  the  Governor  before 
we're  done  with  it,  Rowland,  and  you  know 
what  state  laws  we've  got  to  compel  a  Mayor 
of  an  incorporated  city  to  do  his  duty!  .  .  . 
This  is  where  we  part  company,  Rowland. 
You  '11  hear  from  me  later ! ' '  He  slammed  down 
the  receiver,  rattled  the  hook  impetuously,  and 
called  Mirabelle's  number. 

"Mirabelle  .  .  .  good-morning;  have  you 
....  No,  I  'm  not  cross  at  you,  but — Oh !  Good- 
morning,  dear.  .  .  .  This  is  important.  Have 
you  seen  the  Orpheum's  ad  in  the  Herald? 
Isn't  that  the  most  barefaced  thing  you  ever 
saw?  Don't  we  want  to  rush  in  and — " 


ROPE  209 

She  interrupted  him.  "Why,  no,  not  when 
it 's  for  charity,  do  we  V ' 

Mr.  Mix  nearly  dropped  the  receiver. 
"Charity!  Charity  your  grandmother !  It's  a 
cheap  trick  to  attract  people  during  the  week, 
so  they'll  have  a  show  on  Sunday  in  spite  of  the 
law!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  doubt  there's  some  catch  in  it. 
That's  Henry  all  over.  But  if  the  League  went 
out  and  interfered  with  an  educational  and  sort 
of  religious  program  with  a  collection  for 
charity,  we'd — " 

"Yes,  but  my  dear  woman,  would  we  sanc- 
tion a  dance  for  charity?  A  poker-party?  A 
wine-supper?  We — " 

"But  there  won't  be  any  dancing  or  drinking 
or  card-playing  at  the  Orpheum,  will  there?" 

He  lost  his  temper.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you?  Can't  you  see — " 

"No,  but  I  can  hear  pretty  well,"  said  Mira- 
belle.  "I'm  not  deaf.  And  seems  to  me — " 
She  sniffled-  "Seems  to  me  you're  making  an 
awful  funny  start  of  things,  Theodore. ' ' 

"My  dear  girl — •" 

"What?" 


210  E  0  P  E 

"I  just  said  'my  dear  girl.'    I — " 

* '  Say  it  again,  Theodore ! ' ' 

To  himself,  Mr.  Mix  said  something  else,  but 
for  Mirabelle's  benefit,  he  began  a  third  time. 
"My  dear  girl,  it's  simply  to  evade  the  law, 
and—" 

"But  Theodore,  if  we  lift  one  finger  to  stop 
the  raising  of  money  for  the  poor  starving  chil- 
dren in  foreign  countries,  we'd  lose  every  scrap 
of  influence  we  Ve  gained. ' ' 

"But  this  means  that  all  the  theatres  can 
open  again ! ' ' 

"Well,  maybe  you'd  better  get  to  work  and 
frame  the  amendment  to  Ordinance  147  we've 
been  talking  about,  then.  And  the  new  statute, 
too.  We've  wasted  too  much  time.  But  under 
the  old  one,  we  can't  go  flirting  with  trouble. 
And  if  all  they  do  is  show  pictures  like  Ben- 
Hur,  and  The  Swordmaker's  Son,  why  .  .  . 
don't  you  see?  We  just  won't  notice  this  thing 
of  Henry's.  We  can't  afford  to  act  too  nar- 
row. .  .  .  And  I'm  not  cross  with  you  any 
more.  You  were  all  worked  up,  weren't  you? 
I  '11  excuse  you.  And  I  could  just  hug  you  for 
being  so  worked  up  in  the  interests  of  the 


ROPE  211 

League.  I  didn't  understand.  .  .  .  When  are 
you  coming  up  to  see  me?  I've  been  awfully 
lonesome — since  yesterday." 

Mr.  Mix  hung  up,  and  sat  staring  into  va- 
cancy. Out  of  the  wild  tumult  of  his  thoughts, 
there  arose  one  picture,  clear  and  distinct — 
the  picture  of  his  five  thousand  dollar  note. 
Whatever  else  happened,  he  couldn  't  financially 
afford,  now  or  in  the  immediate  future,  to  break 
with  Mirabelle.  She  would  impale  him  with 
bankruptcy  as  ruthlessly  as  she  would  swat  a 
fly;  she  would  pursue  him,  in  outraged  pride, 
until  he  slept  in  his  grave.  And  on  the  other 
hand,  if  certain  things  did  happen — at  the  Or- 
pheum — how  could  he  spiritually  afford  to  pass 
the  remainder  of  his  life  with  a  militant  re- 
former who  wouldn't  even  have  money  to 
sweeten  her  disposition — and  Mr.  Mix's.  He 
wished  that  he  had  put  off  until  tomorrow  what 
he  had  done,  with  such  conscious  foresight,  only 
yesterday. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NOW  although  Mr.  Mix  had  shaken  with  con- 
sternation when  he  saw  the  advertisement 
of  the  Orpheum,  Henry  shook  with  far  different 
sentiments  when  he  saw  the  announcement  in 
eulogy  of  Mr.  Mix.  It  was  clear  in  his  mind, 
now,  that  Mr.  Mix  wasn't  the  sort  of  man  to 
marry  on  speculation;  Henry  guessed  that 
Mirabelle  had  confided  to  him  the  terms  of  the 
trust  agreement,  and  that  Mr.  Mix  (who  had 
shaken  his  head,  negatively,  when  Henry  esti- 
mated his  profits)  had  decided  that  Henry  was 
out  of  the  running,  and  that  Mirabelle  had  a 
walkover.  The  guess  itself  was  wrong,  but  the 
deduction  from  it  was  correct ;  and  Henry  was 
convulsed  to  think  that  Mr.  Mix  had  shown  his 
hand  so  early.  And  instead  of  gritting  his 
teeth,  and  damning  Mr.  Mix  for  a  conscience- 
less scoundrel,  Henry  put  back  his  head  and 
laughed  until  the  tears  came. 

He  hurried  to  show  the  paragraph  to  Anna, 
212 


E  0  P  E  213 

but  Anna  wouldn't  even  smile.  She  was  a 
woman,  and  therefore  she  compressed  her  lips, 
sorrowfully,  and  said:  "Oh — poor  Miss  Stark- 
weather ! "  To  which  Henry  responded  with  a 
much  more  vigorous  compression  of  his  own 
lips,  and  the  apt  correction:  "Oh,  no — poor 
Mr.  Mix!" 

He  carried  his  congratulations  to  his  aunt  in 
person;  she  received  them  characteristically. 
"Humph!  .  .  .  Pretty  flowery  language.  .  .  . 
Well,  you  don't  need  to  send  me  any  present, 
Henry;  I  didn't  send  you  one." 

"When's  the  happy  event  to  be?"  he  in- 
quired, politely. 

"June.     Fourth  of  June." 

"And  do  you  know  where  you're  going  for 
your  honeymoon  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  like  that  word,"  said  Mirabelle. 
"It  sounds  mushier  than  a  corn-starch  pudding. 
And  besides,  it's  nobody's  business  but  his  and 
mine,  and  I  haven't  even  told  him  yet.  I'm 
keeping  it  for  a  surprise." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Henry.  * '  That 's  rather  a  novel 
idea,  isn't  it?" 

"Humph!"    said    Mirabelle,    dryly.     "The 


214  ROPE 

whole  thing's  novel,  isn't  it?  But  I'm  obliged 
for  your  coming  up  here,  Henry.  I  didn  't  sup- 
pose you  had  enough  interest  in  family  matters 
to  be  so  nosey,  even." 

Later  in  the  week,  Henry  encountered  Mr. 
Mix,  and  repeated  his  congratulations  with  such 
honeyed  emphasis  that  Mr.  Mix  began  to  stam- 
mer. "I  appreciate  all  you  say,  Henry — but 
— come  here  a  minute."  He  drew  Henry  into 
a  convenient  doorway.  ''I'm  sort  of  afraid, 
from  the  way  you  act,  there 's  something  in  the 
back  of  your  mind.  I've  thought,  sometimes, 
you  must  have  lost  sight  of  the  big,  broad  prin- 
ciples behind  the  work  I'm  doing.  I've  been 
afraid  you've  taken  my  work  as  if  it  was  di- 
rected personally  against  you.  Not  that  I've 
ever  heard  you  say  anything  like  that,  but  your 
manner's  been  .  .  .  well,  anyway,  you're  too 
big  a  man  for  that,  Henry.  Now  about  this 
new  scheme  of  yours.  It's  my  feeling  that 
you're  dodging  the  law  by  sliding  in  the  back 
door.  It's  my  official  duty  to  look  into  it.  Only 
if  we  do  have  to  put  a  stop  to  it,  I  want  you 
to  realize  that  I  sympathize  with  any  personal 


ROPE  215 

loss  you  may  have  to  suffer.  Personally,  I'm 
grieved  to  have  to  take  this  stand  against  John 
Starkweather 's  nephew.  You  understand  that, 
don't  you?" 

Henry  nodded  assent.  "Why,  certainly. 
Your  motives  are  purer  than  the  thoughts  of 
childhood.  The  only  thing  I  don't  understand 
is  what  all  this  has  to  do  with  my  congratulat- 
ing you?" 

"Oh,  nothing  whatever.  Nothing  at  all.  It 
was  just  your  manner." 

"Let's  come  out  in  the  open,  then.  How  do 
you  think  you  could  put  a  stop  to  it?  Because 
if  you  could,  why,  I'll  save  you  the  trouble." 

Mr.  Mix  hesitated.  "You  were  always  an 
original  young  man,  Henry.  But  if  it's  my 
duty  to  stop  your  show,  why  should  I  give  away 
my  plans?  So  you  could  anticipate  'em?" 

"No,  I've  done  that  already." 

"Now,  Henry,  that  sounds  too  conceited  to  be 
like  you." 

"Oh,  no,  it's  only  a  fact.  But  here — I'll  run 
through  the  list  for  you.  Have  me  pinched  un- 
der the  ordinance?  Can't  be  done;  the  City 


216  K  0  P  E 

Attorney's  said  so,  and  I  saw  the  Chief  of  Po- 
lice was  in  on  it.  Get  an  injunction?  You  can't 
do  that  either,  because- — " 

"Why  can't  we?" 

"Because  I've  got  one  already." 

Mr.  Mix's  jaw  dropped.  "What's  that? 
How  could  you — " 

"Oh,  I  got  Bob  Standish — just  as  a  citizen 
tax-payer — to  apply  for  a  temporary  injunc- 
tion yesterday,  to  test  it  out.  It's  being  argued 
this  morning.  Don't  you  want  to  come  over 
and  hear  it  ?  If  I  lose,  I  won't  open  next  Sun- 
day at  all;  and  if  I  win,  then  the  League  can't 
get  an  injunction  later.  .  .  .  What  else  can  you 
do?" 

"We  may  have  other  cards  up  our  sleeves," 
said  Mr.  Mix,  stiltedly. 

"Just  the  place  I'd  have  looked  for  'em," 
said  Henry,  but  his  tone  was  so  gentle  and  in- 
offensive that  Mr.  Mix  only  stared. 

He  shook  hands  with  Henry,  and  hurried  over 
to  the  Court  House,  where  he  arrived  just  in 
time  to  hear  the  grey-haired  jurist  say,  dispas- 
sionately: "Motion  denied." 

Mr.  Mix  swabbed  his  face,  and  thought  in 


E  0  P  E  217 

lurid  adjectives.  He  wouldn't  have  dared,  in 
view  of  Mirabelle's  opinion,  to  ask  for  an  in- 
junction on  behalf  of  the  League  itself,  but  it 
had  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  arrange  the 
matter  privately.  He  could  persuade  one  of 
of  the  old  moss-backs  that  Mirabelle  might  be 
swayed  by  her  relationship  to  Henry  (this 
struck  him  as  the  height  of  sardonic  humour), 
and  the  moss-back  could  go  into  Court  as  an  in- 
dividual, to  enjoin  the  Sunday  performance  as 
opposed  to  public  policy.  But  Henry  had  out- 
stripped him;  and  furthermore,  there  was  no 
question  of  judicial  favour.  The  Judge  who 
had  refused  the  application  was  no  friend  of 
Henry,  or  of  Judge  Barklay.  And  Bob  Stand- 
ish's  attorney,  who  by  a  fiction  was  attacking 
Henry's  position,  had  claimed  that  the  Sunday 
show  was  designed  for  profit,  and  that  the  price 
was  merely  collected  in  advance.  This  would 
have  been  precisely  Mr.  Mix's  thesis.  Henry's 
own  lawyer  had  replied  that  since  there  was  no 
advance  in  the  price  of  tickets  during  the  week, 
there  was  no  charge  for  Sunday.  A  ticket  dur- 
ing the  week  included  an  invitation.  To  be 
sure,  one  couldn't  get  the  invitation  without  the 


218  ROPE 

ticket,  but  where  was  the  ordinance  violated! 
Would  the  Court  hold,  for  example,  that  a  gro- 
cer couldn't  invite  to  a  lecture,  for  charity,  on 
Sunday,  every  one  who  had  patronized  his  shop 
during  the  previous  week?  Would  the  Court 
hold  that  an  author  couldn't  invite  to  a  public 
reading  on  Sunday,  every  one  who  had  bought 
his  book  on  Saturday? 

The  Court  wouldn't. 

And  Mr.  Mix,  who  knew  Henry's  income  to 
the  nearest  dollar,  went  home  and  got  a  pencil, 
and  covered  sheet  after  sheet  with  figures. 

Presently,  he  sat  back  and  laughed.  Why, 
he  had  had  his  hysterics  for  nothing!  Henry 
couldn't  overcome  his  handicap  unless  he 
jammed  his  house  to  capacity  from  now  until 
August.  No  theatre  had  even  yet  accomplished 
such  a  feat.  And  it  wasn't  as  though  Henry 
had  a  monopoly  on  this  scheme;  in  another 
week,  all  his  competitors  would  be  open  Sun- 
days, too,  with  strictly  moral  shows,  and  no 
money  taken  at  the  door,  and  he  would  have  the 
same  competition  as  always.  And  yet,  to  be 
perfectly  safe,  (for  Henry  was  fast  on  his  feet) 
Mr.  Mix  had  better  frame  his  amendment  to  the 


ROPE  219 

ordinance,  and  set  the  wheels  in  motion.  With 
good  luck,  he  could  have  Henry  blanketed  by 
April. 

That  evening,  Mirabelle  found  him  more  ani- 
mated than  usual;  and  more  lavish  with  com- 
pliments. 

Since  he  had  first  seen  Henry's  advertise- 
ment, Mr.  Mix  had  been  as  uncertain  of  his 
prospects  as  a  child  with  a  daisy;  he  had  fore- 
seen that  it  was  only  a  part  of  a  very  narrow 
margin  of  fortune  which  would  determine 
whether  he  was  to  be  a  rich  man,  poor  man,  beg- 
gar man — or  jilt.  Now,  however,  his  confidence 
was  back  in  his  heart,  and  when,  on  Sunday  aft- 
ernoon, he  placed  himself  inconspicuously  in 
the  window  of  an  ice-cream  parlour,  squarely 
opposite  the  Orpheum,  it  was  merely  to  satisfy 
his  inquisitiveness,  and  not  to  feed  his  doubt. 

He  had  to  concede  that  Henry  was  clever. 
Henry  had  introduced  more  fresh  ideas  into 
his  business  than  all  his  competitors  in  bulk. 
What  a  customers '-man  Henry  would  have 
been,  if  he  had  entered  Mr.  Mix's  brokerage  of- 
fice! Yes,  he  was  clever,  and  this  present  in- 
spiration of  his  was  really  brilliant.  Mr.  Mix 


220  ROPE 

could  see,  clearly,  just  what  Henry  had  devised. 
He  had  devised  a  rebate:  from  a  book-keeping 
standpoint  he  was  cutting  his  own  prices  during 
the  week  (for  of  course  the  Sunday  perform- 
ance was  costly  to  him)  but  he  was  cutting  them 
in  such  a  subterranean  manner  that  he  wouldn't 
expect  to  lose  by  it.  Palpably,  he  thought  that 
Orpheum  stubs  would  become  negotiable,  that 
they  would  pass  almost  as  currency,  that  when 
people  hesitated  between  the  Orpheum  and  any 
other  theatre,  they  would  choose  the  Orpheum 
because  of  the  Sunday  feature.  But  did  Henry 
imagine  that  his  scheme  was  copyrighted  f  Mr. 
Mix  had  to  smile.  Across  the  street,  there  were 
fully  a  hundred  people  waiting  for  the  doors 
to  open  .  .  .  the  doors  had  opened,  and  the 
crowd  was  filing  past  the  ticket-booth.  The 
house  would  be  packed  solid  from  now  until  late 
evening.  But  when  next  Sunday  came,  and  all 
the  other  houses,  relying  upon  Henry's  triumph 
over  the  City  Attorney  and  the  District  Court, 
stole  Henry's  thunder.  ...  It  was  to  laugh. 
Week-day  business  would  be  spread  thin,  as  al- 
ways; people  could  suit  their  own  choice,  and 


ROPE  221 

have  the  same  Sunday  privilege.  And  this 
would  knock  all  the  profit  out  of  it. 

Mr.  Mix  retired,  in  the  blandest  of  good- 
humour,  and  on  Monday  he  visited  the  manager 
of  the  largest  picture  house  in  town. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  you  're  going  to  follow 
the  procession,  aren't  you?" 

The  manager  looked  at  him  queerly.  "Well 
—no." 

"Beally?" 

"No.  That  bird  Devereux  put  it  all  over  us 
like  a  tent. ' '  He  snorted  with  disgust.  '  *  Man 
from  Standish's  office  come  round  here  a  while 
back  and  asked  for  a  price  for  the  house  for 
Sundays  up  to  August.  We  thought  it  was  for 
some  forum,  or  something ;  and  the  damn  place 
was  shut  down  anyway;  so  we  made  a  lease. 
Next  twenty  Sundays  for  four  hundred  and 
seventy-five  beanos,  cash  in  advance.  Then  it 
turns  up  that  Standish's  office  was  actin'  for 
Devereux." 

The  bloom  of  apoplexy  rose  to  Mr.  Mix's 
cheeks.  "You  mean  he — do  you  know  if  he 
leased  more  theatres  than  this  one?  Did  he?" 


222  ROPE 

"Did  he!  He  signed  up  the  whole  damn  Ex- 
hibitors' Association.  There's  twenty-two 
houses  in  town,  and  he's  tied  up  twenty-one 
and  he  owns  the  other.  Far's  I  can  find  out, 
it  only  cost  him  about  six  thousand  to  get  an 
air-tight  monopoly  on  Sunday  shows  for  the 
next  six  months." 

Mr.  Mix  drew  breath  from  the  very  bottom 
of  his  lungs.  "What  can  you — do  about  it!" 

"Do?  What  is  there  to  do?  All  we  can  do 
is  put  on  an  extra  feature  durin'  the  week,  to 
try  and  buck  him  that  way — and  it  won't  pay 
to  do  it.  He's  got  a  cinch.  He's  got  a  graft. 
And  all  the  rest  of  us  are  in  the  soup." 

Mr.  Mix  was  occupied  with  mental  arithme- 
tic. "Tell  me  this — is  it  going  to  pay  him?" 

"Pay  him!"  echoed  the  manager  scornfully. 
"Six  thou  for  twenty  weeks  is  three  hundred  a 
week.  Fifty  a  day.  Twelve-fifty  a  perform- 
ance. Twelve-fifty  calls  for  about  twenty-five 
people.  Don't  you  think  he'll  draw  that  many 
new  patrons,  when  he  can  give  'em  on  Sundays 
what  nobody  else  can?  And  everything  over 
twenty-five '11  be  velvet.  He'll  clean  up  two, 
three  thousand  easy  and  maybe  more.  What 


E  0  P  E  223 

beats  me  is  why  he  didn't  get  leases  for  the  next 
hundred  years.  We  wouldn't  have  had  the 
sense  to  block  him." 

"I'll  tell  you  why,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  choking 
down  his  passion.  " Because  there's  going  to 
be  a  new  ordinance.  It'll  deal  with  Sunday  en- 
tertainments. And  it's  going  to  prohibit  any 
such  horse-play  as  this."  He  surveyed  his 
man  critically.  "Does  Henry  Devereux  belong 
to  your  Association?" 

"No,  he  don't.  And  he  won't  either.  We 
don't  want  him." 

"Then  as  long  as  you  people  can't  keep  open 
Sundays  anyway,"  observed  Mr.  Mix  care- 
lessly, "maybe  you'd  find  it  to  your  advantage 
to  support  the  Mix  amendment  when  it  gets  up 
to  the  Council.  It'll  kill  off  any  such  unfair 
competition  as  this." 

The  manager  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If 
it  wasn't  for  your  damn  League  we'd  all  be 
makin'  money." 

"I'm  sorry  we  don't  all  see  this  thing  in  the 
same  light.  But  as  long  as  the  rest  of  you  are 
out  of  it—  " 

"Oh,  I  can  see  that.  .  .  .  And  you  and  me 


224  E  0  P  E 

both  understand  a  little  about  politics,  I  should 
imagine. ' '  He  grinned  wryly.  ' '  Never  thought 
I'd  link  up  with  any  reform  outfit — but  why 
don't  you  mail  me  a  copy  of  your  amendment, 
and  I'll  see  how  the  boys  take  it." 

Mr.  Mix  agreed  to  mail  a  copy  as  soon  as 
the  final  draft  was  completed,  and  he  was  as 
good  as  his  word.  On  the  same  evening,  he 
read  the  masterpiece  to  Mirabelle  with  finished 
emphasis. 

"It's  perfect,"  she  said,  her  eyes  snapping. 
"It's  perfect!  Of  course,  I  wish  you'd  have 
made  it  cover  more  ground,  but  just  as  a  Sun- 
day law,  it's  perfect.  When  are  we  going  to 
offer  it  to  the  Council?" 

"Mirabelle,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  "we've  got  to  do 
some  missionary  work  first.  And  before  you 
can  do  missionary  work,  whether  it's  for  re- 
ligion or  politics  or  reform,  you've  got  to  have 
a  fund." 

"Fund?  Fund?  To  get  an  ordinance 
passed?  Why  don't  you  walk  in  and  hand  it 
to  'em?" 

He  shook  his  head.    "I  was  in  politics  a  good 


ROPE  225 

many  years.  We  Ve  got  to  get  out  printed  mat- 
ter, we've  got  to  spend  something  for  advertis- 
ing, we  Ve  got  to — approach  some  of  the  Coun- 
cillors the  right  way." 

She  sat  up  in  horror.    "Not — bribe  them!" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!  You  didn't  think  that  of 
me!" 

"No,  but  when  you  said — " 

' '  I  said  they  had  to  be  *  approached. '  I  didn  't 
mean  corruption;  I  meant  enlightenment." 
He  rubbed  his  nose  reflectively.  "But  the  cost 
is  approximately  the  same." 

"Of  course,  I  trust  your  judgment,  Theodore, 
but  .  .  .  how  big  a  fund  do  you  suppose  we'll 
want. '  * 

"Oh,  I  should  think  five  thousand  would  do 
it." 

"Five — !  Theodore  Mix,  how  could  you 
spend  five  thousand  dollars  for  such  a  thing? 
There  isn't  that  much  in  the  treasury !  There's 
hardly  one  thousand." 

"My  dear,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I'd  pro- 
tect my  ante.  I'd — " 

"What's  all  that  gibberish?" 


226  ROPE 

"I  said,'7  he  corrected  hastily,  "we've  got 
too  much  at  stake  to  risk  any  failure  when  a 
little  money  would  guarantee  success. ' ' 

"Would  five  thousand  dollars  guarantee  it!" 

"If  I  had  that  much  in  cash,  to  spend  here 
and  there  as  I  saw  the  need  of  it — take  one  type 
of  man  out  to  dinner  a  few  times,  where  I  could 
get  close  to  him — loan  another  type  fifty  dollars 
if  he  asked  me  for  it(  and  some  of  'em  would) — 
hire  detectives  to  shadow  another  type — " 

"Detectives!" 

"Yes.  To  check  up  their  habits.  Suppose 
we  found  a  man  gambling  on  the  sly;  we'd 
hold  that  over  his  head  and — " 

' '  Humph !  I  don 't  like  it  much,  but  in  a  good 
cause  it  may  be  justifiable." 

"And  leaflets  and  circulars  and  one  thing  and 
another.  .  .  .  But  if  I  have  to  go  out  and  get 
permission  from  a  finance  committee  before  I 
can  let  go  of  a  dime,  I  can't  do  anything.  I'd 
have  to  have  the  money  so  I  could  use  it  exactly 
as  I  needed  it.  And  if  I  did,  I'll  bet  I  could  get 
support  you  never  dreamed  of.  Get  outside 
people  to  bring  pressure  on  the  Council."  He 
gazed  at  the  ceiling.  "Why,  with  a  leeway  of 


ROPE  227 

five  thousand,  I  'd  even  have  the  Exhibitor 's  As- 
sociation with  us.  I'd  have — " 

"Think  so?" 

"I  know  so." 

"How?" 

"Because  long  before  I  was  in  the  League, 
I  was  in  politics.  When  I  say  I  know,  I  know. 
Of  course,  the  Association's  help  would  only 
go  to  show  that  they  see  the  light  in  respect  to 
their  own  business — it  wouldn't  cover  all  the 
whole  scope  of  the  amendment,  but  even  so — " 

"Theodore,  you  know  politics  and  I  don't. 
But  both  of  us  know  the  proverb  about  what 
you  catch  flies  with.  So  we '11* try  both  methods 
together.  You  can  put  out  the  molasses,  and 
I'll  put  out  the  vinegar;  and  between  us,  we 
ought  to  get  somewhere." 

"We  can't  fail,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  sitting  on 
needles. 

Mirabelle  went  over  to  her  desk,  and  searched 
the  pigeon-holes.  "I've  been  told,  Theodore, 
by — people  I  consider  very  reliable — that  in 
August,  dear  John's  money  will  be  coming  to 
me. ' '  This  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever 
broached  the  delicate  subject.  "I  always 


228  E  0  P  E 

meant  to  use  some  of  it  for  the  League."  She 
had  unearthed  her  check  book,  and  was 
writing  words  and  figures  as  angular  as 
herself.  "So  really, — this  is  on  account." 
She  came  over  to  hand  him  the  check,  and  after 
a  slight  hesitation,  she  stooped  and  pecked  him 
on  the  forehead,  but  immediately  afterwards 
she  relapsed  into  her  consistently,  non-roman- 
tic character.  "You  better  give  me  an  item- 
ized account  of  how  you  spend  it,  though,  Theo- 
dore. You  better  give  me  one  every  day. 
We've  got  to  be  businesslike,  even  if  we  are — 
engaged/1 


• 
CHAPTEE  XIII 

FOR  two-thirds  of  a  year,  Henry  Devereux 
had  lived  contrary  to  his  independent 
taste,  and  to  his  education.  He  had  virtually 
cut  himself  adrift  from  the  people  he  liked 
and  the  pleasures  he  loved ;  his  sole  luxury  had 
been  his  membership  in  the  Citizens  Club ;  and 
he  had  laboured  far  more  diligently  and  with 
far  less  respite  than  his  uncle  had  ever  intended. 
He  had  overcome  -great  difficulties,  of  which 
the  most  significant  was  his  own  set  of  social 
fetiches,  and  he  had  learned  his  weaknesses 
by  exercise  of  his  strength.  He  had  made  new 
friends,  and  brought  the  old  ones  closer  to  him 
— and  this  by  virtue  of  honest  plugging,  and  de- 
termination. He  was  unassumingly  proud  of 
himself,  and  he  was  prouder  yet  of  Anna;  he 
knew  that  the  major  portion  of  his  accomplish- 
ment— and  especially  that  part  of  it  which  had 
taken  place  within  himself — was  to  be  put  down 
to  Anna's  credit.  But  the  spring  was  coming 

229 


230  ROPE 

towards  them,  and  Henry  winced  to  think  of 
it.  Heretofore,  the  message  of  spring,  in 
Henry's  estimation,  had  been  a  welcome  to  new 
clothes,  golf,  horseback  parties,  and  out-of-door 
flirtations;  this  season,  it  meant  to  him  a  fall- 
ing-off  in  the  motion-picture  business. 

The  spring  was  calling  to  him,  but  Henry 
had  to  discipline  his  ears.  His  working  hours 
were  from  eleven  in  the  morning  until  mid- 
night; he  sat,  day  after  day,  in  his  constricted 
office,  and  glued  his  mind  upon  his  problems. 
The  Orpheum  was  still  a  sporting  proposition 
to  him,  but  even  in  sport,  there  come  periods 
in  which  the  last  atom  of  nerve  and  will-power 
are  barely  sufficient  to  keep  the  brain  in  motion. 
Henry's  nerves  were  fagged,  his  muscles  were 
twitching,  the  inside  of  his  head  felt  curiously 
heavy  and  red-hot ;  the  spring  was  calling  him, 
but  he  didn't  dare  to  listen.  The  spirit  of  his 
Uncle  John  Starkweather  was  waiting  to  see  if 
he  came  to  the  tape  with  his  head  down,  and 
Henry  was  going  to  finish  on  his  nerve. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  could  easily  have 
spared  an  hour  of  two  each  day  for  exercise  and 
recreation,  but  he  wouldn't  believe  it.  He 


ROPE  231 

wouldn't  yield  to  Anna  when  she  implored  him 
to  get  out  of  doors,  to  freshen  his  mind  and 
tame  his  muscles. 

The  atmosphere  of  his  office  almost  nause- 
ated him;  the  endless  parade  of  petty  details 
was  almost  unbearably  irksome ;  the  book-keep- 
ing part  of  it  alone  was  sx>ul-disintegrating ; 
but  to  Henry,  ambition  had  become  a  mono- 
mania, and  to  it  he  was  ready  to  make  every 
conceivable  sacrifice,  including — if  necessary — 
his  health.  There  were  days  when  he  told  him- 
self that  he  would  pay  a  thousand  dollars 
merely  to  have  green  turf  under  his  feet,  blue 
sky  above,  and  no  worries  in  his  soul — but  he 
wouldn't  sacrifice  an  hour  of  supervision  over 
his  theatre.  There  were  days  when  he  felt  that 
he  would  give  up  his  chance  of  salvation 
if  only  he  could  go  away  with  Anna,  up  into 
the  wooded  country,  for  a  week's  vacation — 
but  he  wouldn't  sacrifice  a  week  from  the  Or- 
pheum  guardianship.  The  spring  was  calling 
him — the  golf  course,  the  bridle-paths,  the  lake, 
the  polo — but  Henry  had  put  himself  in  high 
speed  forward,  and  there  was  no  reverse. 
Then,  too,  he  was  constantly  thinking  of  Anna, 


232  ROPE 

who  without  the  daily  stimulus  that  Henry  had, 
was  cheerfully  performing  the  function  of  a  do- 
mestic drudge.  One  of  his  most  frequently  re- 
peated slogans  was  that  if  Anna  could  stick  it 
out,  he  could. 

While  the  winter  favoured  it,  his  monopoly 
had  brought  him  a  splendid  return,  but  the 
first  warm  days  had  signalled  a  serious  loss  of 
patronage,  and  Henry  couldn't  successfully 
combat  the  weather.  The  weather  was  too  glor- 
ious; it  called  away  Henry's  audiences,  just  as 
it  tried  in  vain  to  inveigle  Henry.  And  then 
the  monopoly  had  been  double-edged;  it  had 
been  a  good  risk — and  without  it,  he  wouldn't 
have  had  the  slightest  chance  against  the  re- 
quirements— but  it  had  been  too  perfect,  too 
prominent.  In  the  beginning,  everybody  had 
hailed  him  as  a  Napoleon  because  he  had  van- 
quished his  little  world  of  competitors ;  but  now 
that  his  laurel  was  old  enough  to  wilt,  he  was 
receiving  the  natural  back-lash  of  criticism. 
Naturally,  his  personal  friends  were  still  de- 
lighted, the  older  men  at  the  club  were  still  con- 
gratulating him  for  foresight  and  ingenuity, 
and  Mr.  Archer  was  still  complimentary  and 


E  0  P  E  233 

confident :  but  the  great  mass  of  theatre-goers, 
and  the  mass  of  self-appointed  arbiters  of 
business  ethics,  were  pointing  to  him  as  a 
follower  of  the  gods  of  grasp  and  gripe.  More 
disquieting  than  that,  however,  were  the  indi- 
cations of  a  new  crusade,  led  by  Mr.  Mix,  and 
directed  against  the  Council.  The  Mix  amend- 
ment, which  was  so  sweeping  that  it  prohibited 
even  Sunday  shows  for  charity,  would  auto- 
matically checkmate  Henry;  and  the  worst 
of  it  was  that  money  was  being  spent  with 
some  effectiveness.  Of  course,  the  amendment 
wouldn't  ever  be  adopted  in  toto — it  was  too 
sweeping,  too  drastic — but  even  a  compromise 
on  the  subject  of  Sunday  entertainments  would 
be  fatal. 

Despite  the  strain,  he  was  outwardly  as  blithe 
and  optimistic  as  usual.  When  Anna  pleaded 
with  him  to  take  a  vacation,  he  either  laughed 
her  off  in  his  most  jovial  manner,  or  riposted 
that  she  needed  a  vacation  far  more  than  he 
did,  which  may  have  been  true;  when  Judge 
Barklay  attempted  to  reason  with  him,  he  re- 
sponded with  respectful  humour.  He  had  seen 
victory  slip  within  his  grasp,  and  slip  out  of  it, 


234  ROPE 

so  often  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  complete 
demoralization,  but  he  thought  that  he  alone 
was  aware  of  it,  and  because  of  his  pride,  Anna 
didn't  disillusion  him. 

Nor  did  Bob  Standish  disillusion  him. 
Standish  tried  to  bolster  him  up  with  under- 
graduate slang,  and  to  convey  to  Henry  the  fact 
that  all  the  hill-folk  were  solidly  behind  him, 
but  he  knew  better  than  to  come  out  flat  with 
commiseration.  Then,  too,  Standish  was  con- 
scious of  a  vague  cloud  which  had  come  up  to 
blur  their  relationship.  He  didn't  suspect  for 
an  instant  the  true  cause  of  it,  which  was  his 
remark,  some  months  ago,  that  he  wouldn't 
employ  in  his  office  a  friend  such  as  Henry; 
but  he  felt  it,  and  was  keenly  concerned  about 
it.  Nevertheless,  his  own  unselfish  interest 
never  faltered,  and  he  waited  patiently,  because 
he  knew  that  between  himself  and  Henry  there 
could  be  no  permanent  misunderstanding. 

Nor  did  Mr.  Archer,  Henry's  firm  friend  and 
ally  (insofar  as  Mr.  Archer  could  separate  his 
personality  into  two  separate  entities,  one  of 
which  was  ally,  and  the  other  was  impartial 
trustee)  disillusion  him,  although  Mr.  Archer 


ROPE  235 

had  also  eyes  to  see  with.  On  the  contrary,  Mr. 
Archer  put  out  numerous  remarks  which  he  in- 
tended as  lifebuoys. 

" There  was  a  directors'  meeting  of  the  Trust 
and  Deposit  the  other  day,  Henry,  and  somehow 
they  got  talking  about  your  account.  I 
shouldn't  wonder — if  you  ever  wanted  to 
change  your  business — if  they  wouldn't  give 
you  the  opportunity;  and  if  they  did,  it  wouldn't 
be  so  very  long  before  they'd  invite  you  on  the 
Board." 

Henry  disparaged  it.  "What  as — deputy 
assistant  splinter?" 

"You've  made  rather  a  hit  with  the  older 
crowd,  Henry.  And  even  if  you  aren't  a  rich 
man  by  inheritance  next  August,  I'm  not 
worrying  about  your  future." 

"Neither  am  I.  Not  while  I've  got  Anna  to 
think  up  my  best  thoughts  for  me." 

The  lawyer  nodded.  "A  girl  in  a  thousand, 
Henry. ' ' 

"That's  the  worst  insult  I  ever  heard! 
The  population  of  the  world's  over  two  bil- 
lion!" 

Mr.  Archer  laughed,  but  his  eyes  showed  ap- 


236  E  0  P  E 

proval.  "It's  simply  something  for*  you  to 
keep  in  mind,  my  boy — about  the  bank.  It's  a 
possible  career,  unless  you  want  to  go  on  with 
the  Orpheum.  Of  course,  you'd  have  to  start 
pretty  low,  at  first,  but  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  nobody's  asked  to  come  into  that  bank 
unless  he's  well  thought  of." 

Henry  didn't  repeat  this  conversation  to  Bob 
Standish,  because  he  thought  it  would  sound 
too  much  like  saying  "Yah!"  nor  did  he  re- 
peat it  to  his  wife,  because  he  thought  it  would 
sound  too  egotistical;  but  on  the  same  day  he 
collected  another  item  of  news  which  he  un- 
hesitatingly shared  with  her. 

He  said  to  Anna:  "I  saw  something  down- 
town that'll  amuse  you.  Cigar  store  with  a 
sign  in  front:  Trading  Stamps,  Premium 
Coupons,  and  Orpheum  Theatre  Stubs  Bought 
and  Sold.  If  that  isn't  a  footprint  on  the 
sands  of  time  I'm  going  to  get  measured  for 
glasses." 

She  laughed  a  trifle  recessively.  "I'll  be 
glad  when  it's  all  over,  though.  Won't  you!" 

Inspecting  her,  he  realized  with  a  little  thrill 
of  self -accusation,  that  Anna  had  worn  herself 


ROPE  237 

out;  she  hadn't  had  a  day's  freedom  from 
housework,  and  she  had  worked  twice  as  hard 
as  he  thought  necessary.  She  was  very  tired, 
and  she  showed  it;  but  he  knew  that  when 
she  wanted  the  year  to  be  over,  she  wasn't 
thinking  of  herself,  but  of  him.  He  paid  her 
the  compliment  of  accepting  what  she  said, 
without  tossing  it  back  as  though  she  had  meant 
it  for  herself.  "Well,  I  told  you  I'd  drag  in 
the  bearded  lady  and  the  wild  man  of  Borneo, 
if  I  had  to.  What's  the  matter;  don't  you  like 
the  show  business  ? ' ' 

"Of  course,  we  didn't  exactly  go  into  it  for 
fm." 

"I  seem  to  remember  your  calling  it  a  lark, 
though." 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  going  to  be  quite  as 
awful  as  this." 

"Awful?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean — you're  worn  out, 
and  you  look  dreadfully — and  I  didn't  know 
we'd  have  to  do  so  much — "  She  fumbled  for 
the  word.  "What  is  it  when  a  man  stands  out- 
side, and  tries  to  make  people  come  in  and  look 
at  the  snake-charmer!" 


238  E  0  P  E 

4 'Ballyhoo.  Would  you  have  wanted  me  to 
stay  out  of  it,  if  you'd  known?" 

She  deliberated.  "It's  funny — but  I  don't 
think  I  would.  In  a  way,  it's  been  good  for 
both  of  us.  I'll  just  be  glad  when  it's 
over.  .  .  .  What  sort  of  house  did  you  have?" 

Henry  put  on  his  best  smile.  "Not  too  good. 
Fair." 

"If  we  should  fall  down,  after  all  we've  done 
— oh,  we  can't!  Henry,  we  just  can't!" 

"I  used  to  know  a  poem,"  he  said,  "that  kept 
asking  the  question  'Where  are  the  snows  of 
yesteryear?'  Well,  if  I  could  find  out,  and 
have  'em  shovelled  back  in  the  street,  we'd  be 
in  a  good  position.  But  as  soon  as  the  snow 
melted,  so  did  the  big  crowds.  I'll  never  look 
a  crocus  in  the  face  again.  They've  croaked 
us  out  of  a  couple  of  hundred  a  week,  gross." 

"If  we  should  fall  down,  do  you  know  who 
I'd  be  sorry  for?  The  managers  of  the  other 
theatres.  We'd  just  have  been  dogs  in  the 
manger.  And  every  time  I  think  about  it,  I 
don't  feel  nearly  as  smart  as  I  did  last  January. 
Of  course,  I  suppose  it  was  fair  enough,  but— 

"Fair?     Oh,    yes.     That    sort    of    thing '11 


ROPE  239 

always  be  fair — as  long  as  there's  any  business. 
Queer,  though,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it. 
We  hadn't  any  grudge  against  the  other 
fellows;  but  they'd  have  stolen  our  idea,  so  we 
had  to  protect  it.  If  they'd  stolen  our  ten 
dollar  bill,  they'd  have  had  to  go  to  jail  for  it; 
but  they  could  have  stolen  an  idea  worth  ten 
thousand,  and  we'd  just  have  had  to  stand  back, 
and  gibber.  As  long  as  that's  fair,  then  we 
were  fair. ' ' 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  all  monopolists  go 
through  the  same  thing — first,  they  get  such  a 
wonderful  scheme  that  they  hardly  dare  to  go 
to  bed  for  fear  they'll  talk  in  their  sleep: 
then  they  're  crazy  for  fear  it  won 't  work ;  then 
it  does  work,  and  they  think  they're  the  Lord's 
anointed;  and  bye-and-bye  they  look  around 
and  feel — sort  of  apologetic." 

"Oh.    Do  you  feel  apologetic?" 

"I'm  looking  around,  anyway." 

"You'd  better  save  your  energy.  Mix's 
amendment 's  coming  up  pretty  soon,  and  even 
if  it  doesn't  pass,  I  don't  see  how  we're  going 
to  compete  with  this  weather.  It's  so  abomi- 
nably beautiful  that  it 's — sickening. ' ' 


240  ROPE 

"Oh — Mix!"  she  said,  scornfully.  "It  gives 
me  the  creeps  just  to  hear  his  name !  He 's  a 
nasty  hypocrite,  and  a  sneak,  and  a — How  long 
do  you  suppose  he'll  be  hurrying  around  with 
that  pious  air  after  he  gets  his  money?  Why, 
he  won't  even  stay  in  the  League !" 

Henry  grimaced.  "You're  wrong.  If  he 
gets  his  money,  he  will  stay  in  the  League,  and 
I '11  bet  on  it." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  "Henry,"  she 
burst  out,  "everything  considered,  I  believe  he 
wants  your  uncle's  money  more  than  we  do!" 

"Whichever  one  of  us  gets  it, — "  said  Henry 
grimly,  * '  — He  '11  earn  it ! " 


When  he  recalled  his  previous  years  of 
irresponsibility,  he  was  staggered  to  realize 
how  little  a  fifty  dollar  bill  had  meant  to  him. 
It  had  *neant  a  casual  request  across  the  break- 
fast table;  now,  it  meant  that  seventy  five  or 
a  hundred  people  were  willing  to  pay  him  a 
few  cents  apiece  for  the  result  of  his  head- 
aches ;  and  the  absence  of  those  people,  and  the 


ROPE  241 

failure  of  those  receipts,  meant  the  difference 
between  achievement  and  bitter  downfall. 

He  had  risked  everything  on  his  monopoly, 
and  added  six  thousand  dollars  to  his  quota. 
For  two  months,  he  had  carried  the  double  load, 
and  beaten  his  schedule;  in  early  May,  he  was 
falling  behind  at  the  rate  of  fifty  dollars  a 
week.  With  twelve  weeks  ahead,  he  faced  a 
deficit  of  a  paltry  six  hundred  dollars — and 
the  Mix  amendment  was  peeping  over  the 
horizon. 

He  shaved  down  his  expenses  to  the  utter- 
most penny;  he  ruthlessly  discarded  the  last 
fraction  of  his  class  pride,  and  in  emergency, 
to  save  the  cost  of  a  substitute,  acted  in  place 
of  his  own  doorman.  He  rearranged  the 
lighting  of  the  auditorium  to  save  half  a  dollar 
a  day.  When  the  regular  pianist  was  ill,  he 
permitted  Anna,  for  an  entire  fortnight,  to 
play  in  his  stead;  and  during  that  fortnight 
they  ate  three  meals  a  day  in  a  quick-lunch 
restaurant.  There  was  no  economy  so  trivial 
that  he  wouldn't  embrace  it;  and  yet  his  re- 
ceipts hung  steadily,  maddeningly,  just  below 
the  important  average.  Meanwhile,  the  sub- 


242  E  0  P  E 

ject  of  reform  crept  out  again  to  the  front  page 
of  the  morning  papers. 

For  nine  months,  Mr.  Mix  and  Henry  had 
occupied,  mentally,  the  end  seats  on  a  see-saw, 
and  as  Henry's  mood  went  down,  Mr.  Mix's 
mood  went  up.  By  strict  fidelity  to  his  own 
affairs,  Mr.  Mix  had  kept  himself  in  the  public 
eye  as  a  reformer  of  the  best  and  broadest  type, 
and  he  had  done  this  by  winning  first  Mirabelle, 
and  then  the  rest  of  the  League,  to  his  theory 
that  organization  must  come  before  attack. 
Needless  to  say,  he  had  found  many  impedi- 
ments in  the  way  of  organization;  Mirabelle 
had  often  betrayed  impatience,  but  Mr.  Mix  had 
been  able,  so  far,  to  hold  her  in  check.  He  had 
realized  very  clearly,  however,  that  Mirabelle 
wasn't  to  be  put  off  indefinitely;  and  he  had 
been  glad  that  he  had  a  readymade  ruse  which 
he  could  employ  as  a  blinder  whenever  she 
began  to  fidget.  This  ruse  was  his  amend- 
ment ;  and  although  he  could  no  longer  see  any 
value  in  it  for  the  purposes  of  his  private  feud, 
yet  he  was  passing  it  for  two  reasons;  Mira- 
belle was  one,  and  the  public  was  the  other. 
Even  a  reformer  must  occasionally  justify  his 


ROPE  243 

title;  and  besides,  it  wasn't  the  sort  of  thing 
which  could  injure  the  majesty  of  his  reputa- 
tion. 

On  this,  then,  Mr.  Mix  had  laboured  with  un- 
ceasing diligence,  and  he  had  spent  Mirabelle  's 
money  so  craftily  that  thirty  five  hundred 
dollars  had  done  the  work  of  five  thousand  (and 
the  balance  had  gone  into  his  own  pocket,  and 
thence  into  a  disastrous  speculation  in  cotton), 
but  as  the  year  came  into  June,  he  told  himself 
cheerfully  that  amendment  or  no  amendment, 
he  was  justified  in  buying  Mirabelle  a  wedding- 
ring.  And  when  a  belated  epidemic  of  influ- 
enza rode  into  town,  on  the  wings  of  an  un- 
timely spell  of  weather,  and  the  Health  Depart- 
ment closed  all  theatres  for  five  days,  Mr.  Mix 
told  himself,  further,  that  the  end  of  his  career 
as  a  reformer  was  in  sight,  and  that  the  begin- 
ning of  his  career  of  statecraft  was  just  over 
the  hill.  Once  the  minister  had  said  "Amen," 
and  once  his  bride  had  made  him  her  treasurer, 
and  helped  him  into  the  Mayor 's  chair,  the  Re- 
form League  was  at  liberty  to  go  to  the  devil. 

Mirabelle  had  persisted  in  keeping  the 
wedding-journey  a  surprise  from  him.  She 


244  ROPE 

had  hinted  at  a  trip  which  would  dazzle  him, 
and  also  at  a  wedding  gift  which  would  stun 
him  by  its  magnificence;  Mr.  Mix  had  visions 
on  the  one  hand,  of  Narragansett,  Alaska  or  the 
Canadian  Rockies,  and  on  the  other  hand,  of  a 
double  fistful  of  government  bonds.  Mr.  Mix 
didn't  dare  to  tease  her  about  the  gift,  but  he 
did  dare  to  tease  her  about  the  journey,  and 
eventually  she  relented. 

1  i I'll  tell  you,"  said  Mirabelle,  archly. 
"We're  going  to  the  convention." 

Mr.  Mix  looked  blank.     "Convention?" 

She  nodded  proudly.  "The  national  con- 
vention of  reform  clubs,  in  Chicago.  Aren't 
you  surprised?" 

Mr.  Mix  swallowed,  and  made  himself  smile, 
but  it  was  a  hazardous  undertaking.  "Sur- 
prised? I — I'm — I'm  knocked  endways!" 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "we'll  be  married  on 
the  fourth  and  be  in  Chicago  on  the  sixth  and  be 
home  again  on  the  fourteenth  and  the  Council 
won't  vote  on  the  amendment  until  the  six- 
teenth. Could  anything  have  been  nicer? 
Now,  Theodore,  you  hadn't  guessed  it,  had 
you?" 


E  0  P  E  245 

" Guessed  it?"  he  stammered.  "I  should 
say  not.  I  don't  see  how  you  ever  thought  of 
it.  It 's — why,  I  'm  paralyzed ! ' ' 

11  You  could  be  a  little  more  enthusiastic  with- 
out hurting  yourself  any,"  she  said  sus- 
piciously. 

"I  was  thinking.  I  used  to  fancy  I  was 
pretty  good  at  making  plans  myself,  but  this 
beats  me.  The  way  those  dates  all  dovetail  like 
the  tiles  on  a  roof.  I  never  heard  of  anything 
like  it.  Only — well,  if  you  will  be  so  quick  at 
reading  my  mind,  I  was  wondering  if  we  ought 
to  leave  town  before  the  Council  meets. '  > 

"That's  mighty  unselfish  of  you,  Theodore, 
but  you  said  only  a  couple  of  days  ago  you'd 
done  all  you  could.  And  the  Exhibitors  '11  still 
be  working — " 

"I  don't  believe  they'll  work  any  too  hard. 
It's  taken  too  long  to  get  under  way.  If  the 
amendment  passes,  you  see  they'll  only  have 
the  advantage  of  six  weeks  of  fair  competition. 
I  mean,  Henry 'd  lose  only  six  weeks  of  his  un- 
fair competition.  And  then  we've  got  to  see 
about  getting  new  quarters  for  the  League, 
when  our  Masonic  Hall  lease  runs  out,  and — " 


246  E  0  P  E 

"But  our  advertising '11  be  running  just  the 
same,  and  the  League '11  still  have  its  public 
meetings,  and  all.  And  everywhere  I  go  I  hear 
the  same  thing;  the  people  really  want  this 
passed.  And  anybody  can  find  us  a  new  hall. 
I'll  appoint  somebody.  No,  you're  just  as  un-* 
selfish  as  you  can  be,  but  we'll  be  back  in  time. 
Truly,  Theodore,  didn't  you  guess!" 

Much  of  the  jauntiness  had  gone  out  of  Mr. 
Mix,  but  he  consoled  himself  with  the  certainty 
that  in  another  two  months,  he  would  be  in  a 
position  to  become  masterful.  The  week  in 
Chicago  would  bore  him  excessively,  but  after 
all,  it  was  only  a  small  part  of  a  lifetime.  He 
reflected  that  to  any  prisoner,  the  last  few  days 
before  release,  and  freedom,  are  probably  the 
hardest. 

"How  could  I,  my  dear?" 

"No,  you  must  have  thought  I'd  want  you 
to  traipse  off  on  some  perfectly  aimless,  non- 
sensical trip  like  a  pair  of  sentimental  idiots." 

"Oh,  you  know  me  better  than  that,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  know  how  well  you  knew 


ROPE  247 

me.  Sometimes  I've  been  afraid  you  think  I'm 
too — gushing." 

"Oh,  Mirabelle!" 

"Just  because  I  chatter  along  to  you  as  any 
innocent  young  girl  might — " 

She  continued  to  chatter  for  some  minutes, 
but  Mr.  Mix  was  absent-minded.  He  had 
chewed  the  cud  of  his  own  virtue  for  too  long  a 
time,  and  it  had  given  him  a  sour  stomach.  He 
was  thinking  that  if  her  gift  to  him  were  in 
money  (and  from  her  hints  he  rather  ex- 
pected it)  he  might  even  manage  to  find,  in 
Chicago,  a  type  of  unascetic  diversion  which 
would  remove  the  taste  of  the  convention  from 
his  spirit.  But  it  was  better  to  be  safe  than 
sorry,  and  therefore  Mr.  Mix  decided  to  make 
a  flying  trip  to  New  York,  for  his  bachelor  cele- 
bration. 

To  Mirabelle  he  said  that  he  was  going  to 
confer  with  his  friend,  the  head  of  the  Watch- 
and-Ward  Society.  Mirabelle  promptly  volun- 
teered to  go  along  too,  but  Mr.  Mix  told  her,  as 
delicately  as  he  could,  that  it  wouldn't  look 
proper,  and  Mirabelle,  who  worshipped  pro- 


248  ROPE 

priety  as  all  gods  in  one,  withdrew  the  sug- 
gestion. 

"But  before  you  go,"  she  said,  "You've  got 
to  do  something  about  the  state-wide  campaign. 
You've  got  to  write  the  literature,  anyway." 

Mr.  Mix  felt  that  he  was  protected  by  the 
calendar,  and  promised. 


Before  he  went  to  New  York,  he  wrote  three 
pamphlets  which  were  marvels  of  circumlocu- 
tion, as  far  as  reform  was  concerned,  and 
masterpieces  of  political  writing,  as  far  as  his 
own  interests  were  concerned.  He  had 
borrowed  freely,  and  without  credit,  from  the 
speeches  of  every  orator  from  Everett  to 
Choate,  and  when  he  delivered  the  manuscripts 
to  Mirabelle,  and  went  off  on  his  solitary 
junket,  he  was  convinced  that  he  had  helped 
his  own  personal  cause,  and  satisfied  the 
League,  without  risking  the  smallest  part  of  his 
reputation. 

On  his  return,  he  stopped  first  at  the  Citizens 
Club,  and  when  he  came  into  the  great  living- 


ROPE  249 

room  he  was  aware  that  several  members 
looked  up  at  him  and  smiled.  Over  in  a 
corner,  Henry  Devereux  and  Judge  Barklay 
had  been  conversing  in  undertones;  but  they, 
too,  had  glanced  up,  and  their  smiles  were 
among  the  broadest. 

Mr.  Mix  had  an  uncomfortable  intuition  that 
something  had  blown.  Could  he  have  been 
spotted,  in  New  York,  by  any  one  from  home! 

1 1 What's  the  joke?"  he  inquired  of  the 
nearest  member. 

"Got  a  new  name  for  you — Pitchfork  Mix." 
Mr.  Mix  spread  a  thin  smile  over  his  lips. 
"Supposed  to  be  funny,  is  it?" 

"•Some  folks  think  so." 

"  Where 'd  it  originate?  Let  me  in  on  the 
joke.'" 

"Where  would  it  originate?  You're  some 
strenuous  author — aren't  you?  Didn't  know 
you  had  that  much  acid  in  your  system. ' ' 

"Author?    Author?" 

From  the  table  at  his  side,  the  man  picked  up 
three  pamphlets.  One  was  entitled  The  Model 
Statute,  the  second  was  Local  Problems,  and 
the  third  was  Reform  and  Regeneration.  To 


250  E  0  P  E 

each  of  the  three,  Mr.  Mix's  name  was  signed. 
He  took  them  up,  and  scrutinized  them  closely. 

"Why,  what's  so  remarkable  about  these?" 

"Well,  that  one  on  Local  Problems  isn't  so 
bad,  but  you  know,  Mix,  when  you  come  out  in 
print  and  tell  us  that  sooner  or  later  you're 
going  to  stop  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  play- 
ing-cards, and — " 

"What?" 

"And  stop  all  public  dancing,  and — " 

Mr.  Mix  looked  moonstruck.  "Who  ever 
said  thatt" 

"And  hand  us  out  sumptuary  laws — regulate 
the  length  of  women's  skirts  and — " 

Mr.  Mix  caught  his  breath  sharply. 
*  *  Where 's  that  f  Where  is  it  ?  Show  it  to  me ! 
Show  it  to  me!" 

Obligingly,  the  member  showed  him;  and  as 
Mr.  Mix  stared  at  the  pages,  one  by  one,  the 
veins  in  his  cheeks  grew  purple.  Mirabelle 
had  edited  his  manuscript, — thank  Heaven  she 
hadn't  tampered  with  the  Mix  amendment  of 
the  blue-law  ordinance,  which  Mr.  Mix  had  so 
carefully  phrased  to  checkmate  Henry,  without 
at  the  same  time  seeming  to  do  more  than  pro- 


ROPE  251 

vide  conservative  Sunday  regulation, — but  in 
the  other  articles  Mirabelle  had  shovelled  in  a 
wealth  of  her  own  precious  thoughts,  clad  in  her 
own  bleak  style,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  read  two 
consecutive  paragraphs,  Mr.  Mix  knew  that  the 
worst  wasn't  yet  to  come — it  had  arrived. 

The  other  man  was  amusedly  calm.  "Well, 
you  're  not  going  to  deny  you  wrote  it,  are  you  ? 
Too  bad,  in  a  way,  though.  Oh,  I  don't  blame 
you  for  getting  it  off  your  chest,  if  you  really 
mean  it — a  man  might  as  well  come  out  in  the 
open — but  I'm  afraid  too  many  people '11  think 
it  just  funny." 

Mr.  Mix  produced  a  smile  which  was  a  sickly 
attempt  to  register  nonchalant  poise.  "What 
do  you  hear  about  it  ? " 

1 1  Oh,  what  I  said.  Say  Mix,  do  you  honestly 
mean  all  that  blood-and-thunder  ? ' ' 

Mr.  Mix  smiled  again,  and  hoped  that  his  ex- 
pression was  taken  to  be  non-committal.  To 
save  his  life,  he  couldn't  have  helped  looking 
towards  the  corner  where  Henry  and  Judge 
Barklay  sat,  and  his  fury  and  chagrin  were 
multiplied  when  he  saw  that  they  were  still  af- 
fected by  humour. 


252  HOPE 

He  went  out,  with  vast  dignity^-even  the 
doorman  had  a  twinkle  in  his  eye — and  made 
for  Masonic  Hall.  Mirabelle  was  there,  in  the 
committee  room,  and  at  sight  of  him,  she  had  a 
temporary  fit  of  maidenly  diffidence.  He 
wanted  to  slap  her;  but  he  didn't  even  dare  to 
use  a  tone  of  voice  which  was  more  than  disap- 
proving. 

"  Those  pamphlets — "  he  began,  censori- 
ously. 

"Oh,  yes,  Theodore,  I  took  the  liberty  of 
making  a  few  slight  changes." 

' '  Slight  changes !    Sleight  of  hand  changes ! ' ' 

Mirabelle  drew  herself  up.  "Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  criticise  what  I  did?  7  couldn't  see 
the  sense  of  being  milk-and-watery,  even  if  you 
could.  All  I  put  in  was  what  you've  said  to 
me  a  hundred  times  over.  We've  wasted  too 
much  time  already.  I  thought  we'd  better 
show  our  true  colours." 

Mr.  Mix  stood  and  gaped  at  her.  Under- 
ground politician  that  he  was,  he  knew  that 
Mirabelle  had  utterly  destroyed  the  half  of  his 
ambition.  She  had  made  him  a  laughing-stock, 
a  buffoon,  a  political  joke.  To  think  that  his 


E  0  P  E  253 

name  was  connected  with  a  crusade  against 
short-skirts  and  dancing — Ugh!  Not  even  the 
average  run  of  church-goers  would  swallow  it 
"Mayor!"  he  thought  bitterly.  " President  of 
Council!  I  couldn't  get  elected  second  deputy 
assistant  dog-catcher!" 

Aloud,  he  said  slowly:  "I'm  afraid  it  was 
premature,  that's  all." 

"Oh,  no,  it  wasn't!  You've  no  idea  how 
people  are  talking  about  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  but  he 
hadn't  the  temerity  to  put  a  sarcastic  stress  on 
it.  He  was  wondering  whether,  if  he  issued  a 
statement  to  assure  the  public  that  what  was 
in  those  pamphlets  was  pure  idealism,  and  not 
to  be  taken  as  his  outline  of  any  immediate 
campaign,  he  could  remove  at  least  the  outer 
layer  of  the  bad  impression,  and  save  his 
amendment  from  the  wreck.  He  had  thought, 
earlier,  that  he  wouldn't  need  that  amendment 
as  a  personal  weapon  against  Henry,  but  the 
value  of  it  had  appreciated  by  the  possibility  of 
losing  it.  As  to  the  state-wide  law,  Mr.  Mix 
was  totally  unconcerned.  "Oh,  yes,  I  have," 
he  said. 


254  E  0  P  E 

"Don't  get  too  conceited,  though,  Theodore. 
The  best  part  of  it  was  mine." 

Mr.  Mix's  eagle  eye  saw  a  loophole.  "You 
don't  think  I'm  going  to  take  praise  for  what 
belongs  to  you  do  you  ? "  he  demanded. 

"Why—" 

"No,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Mix.  "Not  exactly. 
I'm  going  to  tell  the  truth  about  it  at  our  next 
meeting,  and  I'm  going  to  send  a  statement  to 
the  Herald." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter." 

"It  matters  to  me.  Maybe  I'm  too  finicky, 
but  that 's  the  kind  of  man  I  am. ' ' 

"You're  too  generous,"  she  murmured. 

Mr.  Mix  wiped  away  a  stray  bead  of  perspir- 
ation, and  breathed  more  freely.  With  Mira- 
belle's  money  to  back  him,  and  the  stigma  of 
those  two  pamphlets  removed,  perhaps  he  had 
a  fighting  chance  for  the  mayoralty  yet. 


It  was  a  house-wedding,  with  very  few  guests, 
no  decorations,  and  perfectly  digestible  re- 
freshments. When  the  last  of  the  party  had 


ROPE  255 

gone  down  the  steps,  Mirabelle,  in  a  travelling- 
suit  which  was  new  in  comparison  with  the  rest 
of  her  wardrobe,  approached  the  bridegroom. 

"Theodore,  I  want  you  to  have  your  gift  be- 
fore we  start.  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  too  de- 
pendent on  me.  Maybe  after  next  month  I'll 
make  some  kind  of  a  settlement  on  you,  but 
that's  neither  here  nor  there.  So  ...  take  it, 
and  I  hope  it 's  what  you  wanted. ' ' 

He  took  it,  and  his  fingers  trembled.  A 
check?  And  for  what  generous  amount? 

"Well — aren't  you  going  to  thank  me?" 

Mr.  Mix  tried  to  speak,  but  the  lump  in  his 
throat  prevented  him.  She  had  given  him  what 
was  the  legal  equivalent  of  five  thousand 
dollars,  but  it  wasn't  in  the  form  of  a  check. 
It  was  his  own  demand  note,  payable  to  John 
Starkweather  and  endorsed  by  him  to  Mira- 
belle. The  word  "Cancelled"  was  written,  in 
Mirabelle 's  angular  hand,  across  the  face  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AS  Henry  and  his  wife  went  down  the  steps, 
they  exchanged  glances  and  smiled 
faintly.  " First  time  I've  been  in  that  house 
for  seven  months, ' '  said  Henry,  half  to  himself. 
"It's  a  bully  old  shack,  too.  I  lived  in  it  ever 
since  I  was  six/' 

"Still,  we're  pretty  comfortable  right  where 
we  are,  dear." 

Henry  lagged  a  little.  "That  does  hurt  my 
feelings.  Of  course,  I'm  so  busy  I  could  live 
in  a  dog-kennel  and  hardly  notice  it,  but  when 
you  have  to  camp  day  in  and  day  out  in  that 
measly  little  joint,  and  smell  everybody  else's 
corned  beef  and  cabbage,  and  dig  like  a  general- 
housework  girl  and  cook,  and  manicure  the 
stove,  and  peel  the  potatoes  and  dust  off  the 
what-not  and  so  on — not  that  you  haven 't  made 
it  a  mighty  pretty  place,  because  you  have— 
without  one  day's  vacation  since  last 
August — " 

256 


ROPE  257 

"But  I've  told  you  so  often,  dear,  I'm  glad 
to  do  it  if  it  helps  you." 

"It  helped  a  lot.  If  you  hadn't  done  it  in 
the  first  place,  I  wouldn't  have  had  the  cash  on 
hand  to  tie  up  the  rest  of  the  picture  houses. 
But  that  time's  gone  by.  I  don't  see  why  in 
thunder  you  won't  hire  some  servants.  And  at 
least  you  could  pike  up  into  the  country  for  a 
week.  Why  don't  you?" 

She  hesitated,  for  temptation  was  strong,  and 
she  was  really  very  tired.  "Maybe  it's  just 
because  I  want  to  play  the  game  out,  too.  It's 
only  two  months  more." 

"And  after  that,"  he  said  firmly,  "we're 
going  to  move.  I'll  have  enough  to  buy  a 
young  bungle-house  up  on  the  hill,  even  if  I 
don't  get  anything  from  Archer.  And  then 
I  'm  going  to  make  up  to  you  for  this  year — see 
if  I  don't." 

"Would  you  sell  the  Orpheumf" 

"Sell  it!"  he  echoed.  "I'd  sell  it  so  quick 
you'd  think  it  was  a  fake  oil-well!  I  could, 
too.  Bob  Standish  sends  me  a  proposition 
from  somebody  about  once  a  week." 


258  E  0  P  E 

' '  Don 't  you  believe  there  's  any  chance  of  our 
catching  up,  then?" 

"Looks  pretty  black,"  he  admitted. 
"They've  got  us  eight  down  and  nine  to  go,  but 
if  this  amendment  holds  off  we've  still  got 
eight  weeks  left  to  think  up  some  wild  scheme/' 

She  squeezed  his  arm.  "I'm  not  afraid  of 
the  future,  no  matter  what  happens.  We  can 
take  care  of  ourselves." 

"Sure  we  can,"  he  said,  easily.  "Maybe  I 
could  get  a  job  keeping  the  books  for  the 
League!  .  .  .  Seriously,  though,  I've  had  two 
or  three  different  propositions  put  up  to  me 
over  at  the  Club  .  .  .  but  Lord!  how  I  hate 
to  be  licked!  Well — let's  train  our  gigantic 
intellects  on  the  job,  and  finish  out  the  heat, 
anyway. ' ' 

She  went  back  to  her  hated  housekeeping,  and 
Henry  went  back  to  his  hated  theatre,  and  for 
another  week  they  laboured  and  pinched  and 
saved,  each  in  a  specific  purpose,  and  each  in 
desperate  support  of  the  other's  loyalty  and 
sacrifice. 

He  brought  her,  then,  the  morning  edition  of 
the  Herald,  and  pointed  out  a  telegraphic  item 


ROPE  259 

on  the  first  page.  "They  must  think  it's  a  sure 
thing,"  he  said,  "and  the  devil  of  it  is  that  I 
guess  they're  pretty  nearly  right." 

Anna  glanced  at  the  headlines,  and  gasped. 
"Mix  elected  second  vice-president  of  the 
national  organization — and  pledges  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars  to  the  national  campaign 
fund!  Oh!  ...  I  wish  I  could  say  what  I 
think!" 

"If  a  hearty  oath  would  relieve  you,  don't 
mind  me,"  said  Henry.  His  chin  was  squarer 
than  usual,  and  his  eyes  were  harder.  "You 
can  see  what  happened,  can't  you?  Aunt  Mira- 
belle  railroaded  him  through — and  the  pompous 
old  fool  looks  the  part — and  she  let  him  promise 
money  she  expects  to  get  in  August.  And  I'll 
bet  it  hurt  him  just  as  much  to  promise  it  as  it 
does  me  to  have  him!" 

She  threw  the  paper  to  the  floor.  "Henry, 
can't  we  do  something?  We're  only  a  few 
hundred  dollars  short!  Can't  we  make  up 
just  that  little  bit?" 

"It's  a  thousand,  now,"  he  said.  "A 
thousand,  and  we're  falling  further  behind 
every  time  the  clock  ticks."  He  retrieved  the 


260  ROPE 

Herald,   and   abstractedly   smoothed   out   the 
pages.    "That  was  a  great  spread-eagle  speech 
of  Mix's. wasn't  it?    Talking  about  his  model 
ordinance,   and  what   he's  going  to  do  next 
year !  .  .  .  Nothing  I  'd  love  better  than  to  give 
that  fellow  a  dose  of  his  own  tonic.    But  that's 
the  deuce  of  it — I  can't  think  how  to  put  it 
over.  .  .  .  Even  if  I'm  licked,  I  wouldn't  feel 
so  badly  if  I  just  had  the  personal  satisfaction 
of  making  him  look  like  a  sick  cat.    Just  once. '  * 
"Yes,"     she     said,     sorrowfully.     "Dad's 
prophecy  didn't  seem  to  work  out,  did  it?" 
"What  prophecy  was  that?" 
"Don't  you  remember?    He  said  if  Mr.  Mix 
only  had  enough  rope — " 

"Oh,  yes.  Only  Mix  declined  the  invitation. 
He's  handled  himself  pretty  well;  you've  got 
to  grant  that.  There's  a  lot  of  people  around 
here  that  honestly  think  he's  a  first-class 
citizen.  Sometimes  I'm  darned  if  I  don't  think 
they  will  elect  him  something.  And  then  God 
save  the  Commonwealth!  But  if  they  ever 
realized  how  far  that  League  '11  go  if  it  ever  gets 
under  way,  and  what  a  bunch  of  hocum  Mix's 


E  0  P  E  261 

part  of  it  is — "    He   stopped  abruptly,  and 
froze  in  his  place;  and  then,  to  Anna's  amaze- 
ment, he  turned  to  her  with  a  whoop  which 
could  have  carried  half-way  to  the  Orpheum. 
'  *  Henry !    What  on  earth  is  it  ? " 
Henry  snatched  up  his  hat  and  made  for  the 
door.     "More  rope!"  he  said,  exultantly,  over 
his  shoulder.     "Lots  more  rope — I'll  tell  you 
tonight!" 


He  arrived  at  the  City  Hall  before  the  record 
room  was  open,  and  he  fretted  and  stamped  in 
the  corridor  until  a  youthful  clerk  with  spats, 
pimples,  and  an  imitation  diamond  scarf-pin 
condescended  to  listen  to  his  wants.  In  twenty 
minutes  he  was  away  again,  and  he  was  lucky 
enough  to  catch  Judge  Barklay  before  the 
bailiff  had  opened  court. 

"Hello,  Henry,"  said  the  Judge.  "Did  you 
want  to  see  me  about  anything!" 

"Bather!"  said  Henry,  who  was  slightly  out 
of  breath.  "It's  about  a  comma." 


262  ROPE 

"A  what?" 

"A  comma.  Where's  your  copy  of  the 
ordinances  f ' ' 

"On  my  desk.    Why?" 

Henry  ran  through  the  volume  to  the  proper 
place,  inserted  his  thumb  as  a  marker,  and  held 
the  book  in  reserve.  "  Judge,  do  you  suppose 
the  voters  want  any  of  these  fool  blue-laws 
passed?" 

"No." 

"Well,  who  does,  then,  outside  of  the 
League?" 

"Nobody.    All  we  want  is  a  decent  city." 

'It's  simply  that  the  League's  got  the  Coun- 
cil more  or  less  buffaloed,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  what  I've  heard,  Henry." 

"And  the  first  thing  we  know,  the  League '11 
have  put  in  such  a  big  wedge  that  it'll  be  too 
late  to  get  it  out.  If  this  amendment  gets  over, 
Mix '11  have  a  show  in  the  fall,  and  then  the 
League '11  run  wild.  Just  as  they  said  in  those 
pamphlets  that  Mix  published,  and  then 
squirmed  out  of.  Isn't  that  so?" 

' '  Very  likely.    Very  likely. ' ' 

"And  yet  everybody's  afraid  to   stand  up 


E  0  P  E  263 

against  it,  for  fear  they'll  be  called  names t" 

*  *  It  looks  so,  Henry. ' ' 

"But  if  the  people  once  started  a  back  fire — " 

The  Judge  shook  his  head.  "Mobs  don't 
start  without  a  leader. " 

"I  know,  but  if  they  ever  realized  what  a 
ghastly  farce  it  would  be — not  even  using  any 
of  the  League's  new  notions,  but  taking  what 
we've  got  on  the  books  right  now — "  He 
opened  the  volume  of  ordinances,  and  read 
slowly:  "  'Whosoever  shall  fail  in  the  strict 
observance  of  the  Lord's  Day  by  any  unseenly 
act,  speech  or  carriage;  or  whosoever  shall  en- 
gage in  any  manner  of  diversion — '  "  Here 
he  paused  impressively.  "  ' — or  profane  oc- 
cupation— '  He  slung  the  volume  on  the 
desk,  and  faced  the  Judge.  "Don't  you  get 
it!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't — quite." 

"Why,"  said  Henry,  with  a  beatific  grin. 
"Why,  there's  a  comma  after  that  word  'diver- 
sion.' I've  just  come  from  the  City  Hall.  I've 
seen  the  original  copy.  There  is  a  comma. 
'Any  manner  of  diversion' — that's  one  thing: 
'or  any  manner  of  profane  occupation  for 


264  ROPE 

profit — '  that's  something  else  again,  and  dif- 
ferent entirely.  And  the  Reform  League  has 
been  shrieking  to  have  that  ordinance  enforced 
— to  say  nothing  of  the  amendment.  Well,  why 
not  enforce  it  once.  'Any  manner  of  diver- 
sion I'  He  began  to  laugh,  helplessly.  "Oh, 
come  on,  Judge — take  the  pins  out  and  let  your 
imagination  down.  Any  manner  of — " 

The  Judge  was  whistling  softly.  "By 
George,  Henry — " 

"Can't  you  see  it  working?  I'm  not  sure 
anybody  could  even  take  a  nap !  And— 

The  Judge  stepped  past  him.  "That's  all 
right,  Henry.  Stay  where  you  are.  I'm  just 
going  to  telephone  Eowland.  .  .  .  Hello:  May- 
or's office,  please — "  He  motioned  to  his 
son-in-law.  "Make  yourself  comfortable — I 
shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  these  blue-laws 
weren't  going  to  get  just  a  little  bit — bleached.'* 


On  his  delirious  way  to  the  Orpheum,  he 
stopped  in  to  see  Bob  Standish,  not  to  share  the 
joke  with  him,  for  Judge  Barklay  had  laid  great 


ROPE  265 

stress  on  the  closest  secrecy,  but  in  answer  to 
a  recent  message  asking  him  to  call. 

" What's  the  excitement,  Bob?" 

His  friend  regarded  him  with  the  innocent 
stare  which  had  made  his  fortune.  "Remem- 
ber I  spoke  to  you  some  time  ago  about  renting 
that  space  over  the  Orpheum?" 

"The  nursery?    Yes." 

"Well,  it's  come  up  again.  Different  party, 
this  time.  Of  course  he  hasn't  seen  it  yet,  but 
it's  a  chap  who  wants  about  that  much  space — 
might  want  to  enlarge  it  a  little,  but  we'd  ar- 
range that;  he'd  do  it  at  his  own  expense — and 
he'd  pay  fifteen  hundred  a  year." 

Henry  deliberated.  "It's  so  near  the  fin- 
ish. ...  I  don't  much  care  one  way  or  the 
other.  Who 's  the  party  ? ' ' 

1  'Bird  named  McClellan." 

"I  don't  know  him;  do  I?" 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should;  never  met 
him  before,  myself.  Well,  do  you  want  to 
trade?" 

'  *  I  don 't  much  -care  what  I  do. " 

Standish  surveyed  him  closely.  "You're 
very  peppy  this  morning,  seems  to  me." 


266  K  0  P  E 

"I've  got  an  excuse  to  be." 
1 '  For  publication  ? ' ' 
*  *  Not  yet.    You  '11  see  it  soon  enough. ' ' 
Standish's  eyes  dropped  back  to  his  desk. 
"Well,  let's  get  this  lease  question  off  our 
chests.    If  you'll  let  me  handle  it  for  you,  I'll 
guarantee  you'll  be  satisfied. " 
"Would  you  do  it  if  you  were  in  my  shoes?" 
"Absolutely — provided  you  were  in  mine." 
Henry  laughed.    "Well,  Mr.  Bones,  what  is 
the  answer?" 

"Why — this  may  do  you  some  good.  That  is, 
if  you  let  me  manage  it  for  you.  But  suppose 
it's  immaterial.  Suppose  you  run  out  your 
string,  and  win  or  lose,  you  know  what 's  on  the 
docket  for  you,  don't  you?  If  you  want  it?" 

"I  haven't  thought  that  far  ahead.  IVe  had 
one  or  two  things  put  up  to  me. ' ' 

1 '  Forget  'em. ' '  Standish  pointed  at  the  wall. 
"Nice  new  mahogany  flat-topped  desk  right 
there." 

Henry's  mouth  relaxed.    "Why — Bob." 
As  Standish  gazed  at  him,  no  observer  would 
have  said  that  this  immature-looking  boy  was 
rated  in  the  highest  group  of  local  business- 


E  0  P  E  267 

men.  To  a  stranger,  the  offer  might  have 
seemed  insignificant,  even  humourously  insig- 
nificant; but  to  Henry  it  was  stupendous,  and 
for  two  widely  varying  reasons. 

"Just  to  think  over,"  said  Standish.  "In 
case." 

Henry's  fists  were  doubled.  "It  isn't  so 
much  the  .  .  .  the  commercial  side  of  it,  Bob, 
but  when  I  know  you've  always  had  me  down 
for  such  an  incompetent  sort  of — " 

"That  was  before  the  war.  To  tell  the  truth, 
old  rubbish,  last  August  I  couldn't  have  seen  it 
with  the  Lick  telescope.  Thought  you  were  a 
great  scout,  of  course — good  pal — all  that — but 
business;  that's  different.  A  friend's  one 
thing;  but  a  partner's  a  lot  of  'em." 

Henry  was  staring  fixedly  at  him.  "I 
wouldn't  have  any  money  to  speak  of — " 

"Then  don't  speak  of  it.  I'll  name  the  price. 
The  price  is  your  year's  profit  on  the  Or- 
pheum." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  "When  did  you 
get  this  hunch,  Bob?" 

"Oh,  about  last  February." 

"But  it  was  about  then  that  I  came  in  here 


268  E  0  P  E 

one  day,  and — and  you  said  you — you  said  one 
pal  couldn't  boss  another.  You  said — " 

"Oh!  .  .  .  But  as  I  recall  it,  you  were  talk- 
ing about  a  job." 

"Yes,  and  you  said  you  wouldn't  give  me 
one !  And  ever  since  then  I've  been — ' ' 

"Idiot!"  said  Standish.  "Is  that  what's 
been  gnawing  at  his  tender  heart!  Why,  you 
astigmatic  fool — why.  .  .  .  Stop  right  there! 
Certainly  I  wouldn't  have  you  for  an  employe, 
but  as  a  partner — that's  different.  If  you 
apologize,  I'll  slay  you.  Shake  hands  and 
wipe  it  off  your  brain.  .  .  Now  let's  get  back 
to  business.  We  've  got  to  have  quick  action. '  * 


CHAPTER  XV 

AS  the  train  slowed  for  the  station,  and  a 
score  of  other  passengers  began  to  as- 
semble wraps  and  luggage,  Mr.  Theodore  Mix 
sat  calm  and  undisturbed,  although  inwardly 
he  was  still  raging  at  Mirabelle  for  making  a 
spectacle  of  him.  It  was  fully  half  an  hour  ago 
that  she  had  prodded  him  into  activity,  ignored 
his  plea  of  greater  experience  in  ways  of  travel, 
and  compelled  him  to  get  the  suit-cases  out  to 
the  platform  (she  didn't  trust  the  porter),  to 
help  her  on  with  her  cape,  and  to  be  in  instant 
readiness  for  departure.  For  half  an  hour  she 
had  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  edge  of  her  seat, 
an  umbrella  in  one  hand  and  an  antique  satchel 
in  the  other,  and  her  air  was  a  public  procla- 
mation that  no  railroad,  soulless  corporation 
though  it  might  be,  was  going  to  carry  her  one 
inch  beyond  her  destination. 

By  a  superhuman  effort,  Mr.  Mix  removed 
his  eyes  from  Mirabelle 's  convention  badge.    It 

269 


270  ROPE 

was  a  chaste  decoration  of  three  metal  bars,  two 
sets  of  supporting  chains,  and  a  half  foot  of 
blue  silk  ribbon,  with  white  lettering,  and  Mira- 
belle  continued  to  wear  it  for  two  reasons :  she 
was  proud  of  it,  and  Mr.  Mix  had  made  his  ini- 
tial attempt  to  be  masterful,  and  told  her  twen- 
ty-four hours  ago  that  it  looked  as  though  she 
belonged  to  the  Third  Ward  Chowder  Club. 
Since  then,  she  had  reproached  him  afresh 
whenever  she  caught  him  looking  at  it.  And 
inasmuch  as  it  could  hardly  be  avoided  by  any- 
one who  cast  the  briefest  glance  in  her  general 
direction,  he  had  been  in  hot  water  from  Chi- 
cago to  the  present  moment.  He  couldn't  even 
escape  to  the  smoking  room. 

When  a  man  is  telling  himself  that  a  woman 
has  made  a  fool  of  him  in  public,  and  that  every 
one  in  the  neighbourhood  is  amused  to  watch 
him,  he  finds  it  peculiarly  difficult  to  carry  on  a 
conversation  with  the  woman.  But  Mr.  Mix 
saw  that  Mirabelle  was  about  to  converse,  and 
glowering  at  a  drummer  across  the  aisle,  he 
beat  her  to  it. 

11  Seems  to  me  the  League  had  an  almighty 
gall  to  wire  you  for  that  three  thousand  dol- 


E  0  P  E  271 

lars,  Mirabelle.  If  it  had  been  my  money,  I'd 
have  hung  on  to  it  until  I  knew  what  they 
wanted  it  for." 

She  straightened  her  lips.  "Well,  it  wasn't, 
was  it?— So  I  didn't,  did  I?  ...  If  I  can't 
have  faith  in  my  own  associates,  who  can  I 
have  it  in?  And  it  isn't  a  gift;  it's  a  loan. 
Treasurer  said  he  needed  it  right  off,  and  there 
wasn  't  anybody  else  to  get  it  from  in  a  hurry. ' ' 
She  caught  his  eyes  wandering  towards  her 
gorgeous  insignia,  and  her  own  eyes  snapped 
back  at  him.  "And  I  hope  at  least  I'm  to  have 
the  privilege  of  doing  what  I  choose  with  my 
own  money.  Don't  forget  that  women  are 
people,  now,  just  as  much  as  men  are.  After 
the  first  of  August,  maybe  I'll — " 

"Mirabelle.     Sh-h!" 

' '  No,  I  won 't  either, ' '  she  retorted.  ' '  I  don 't 
care  to  shush.  After  the  first  of  August,  may- 
be you'll  have  your  share,  and  I  won't  presume 
to  interfere  with  you.  So  don't  you  interfere 
with  me.  If  the  League  had  to  have  -money,  it 
was  for  some  proper  purpose.  And  it  wasn't 
a  gift;  it  was  a  loan.  And  if  I  couldn't 
trust—" 


272  EOPE 

''Oh,  give  it  a  drink!"  said  Mr.  Mix,  under 
his  breath;  and  while  he  maintained  an  attij 
tude  of  courteous  attention,  he  barricaded  his 
ears  as  best  he  could,  and  shut  Mirabelle  out  of 
his  consciousness. 

Even  in  Chicago,  he  had  received  bulletins 
from  the  seat  of  war;  they  had  merely  con- 
firmed his  previous  knowledge  that  Henry  was 
beaten,  thoroughly  and  irretrievably.  A  few 
more  weeks,  and  Mirabelle  would  be  rich.  Half 
a  million?  That  was  the  minimum.  Three 
quarters!  That  was  more  likely.  A  million 
dollars?  It  wasn't  in  the  least  improbable. 
And  Mirabelle  had  told  him  more  than  once,  and 
in  plain  English,  that  she  planned  to  divide 
with  him — not  equally,  but  equitably.  She  had 
said  that  she  would  give  him  a  third  of  her 
own  inheritance.  Hm  ...  a  hundred  and 
fifty  to  three  hundred  thousand,  say.  And  what 
couldn't  he  do  with  such  a  benefice?  Of  course, 
he  would  have  to  profess  some  slight  interest  in 
the  League  for  awhile,  but  gradually  he  could 
slide  out  of  it — and  he  hoped  that  he  could  engi- 
neer Mirabelle  out  of  it.  Mirabelle  made  her- 
self too  conspicuous.  But  even  if  Mirabelle 


E  0  P  E  273 

stuck  to  her  colours,  Mr.  Mix  needn't  hesitate 
to  drift  away — that  is,  after  he  had  received  his 
settlement.  Late  in  August,  he  would  make  a 
trip  to  New  York  on  business — reform  business 
— and  in  the  glare  -of  the  flaming-arcs,  he  would 
compensate  himself  for  his  years  of  penance. 
Mirabelle  was  sharp,  but  (he  smiled  reminis- 
cently)  in  Chicago  he  had  once  managed  to 
hoodwink  her;  and  what  man  has  done,  man 
can  do. 

"It's  nothing  to  laugh  at,  Theodore !" 
He  came  to  himself  with  a  start.    "I  wasn't 
laughing. " 

1 1  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ? ' ' 
"Yes,  dear.    Certainly." 
"Very  well.    We'll  go  out,  then." 
"Out  where?" 

' '  Out  to  the  vestibule,  just  as  I  said. ' ' 
"But  Mirabelle!    We're  more  than  a  mile 
from  the  station!" 

"We're  going  out  to  the  vestibule,  Theodore. 
I  don't  propose  to  get  left." 

A  moment  ago,  Mr.  Mix  had  been  arguing 
that  the  smiles  and  sympathy  of  his  fellow-pas- 
sengers were  cheap  at  the  price,  but  when  he 


274  ROPE 

rose  and  escorted  Mirabelle  down  the  aisle,  he 
was  telling  himself  that  the  old-fashioned  prin- 
ciple was  best — the  wife's  property  ought  to 
pass  under  the  absolute  control  of  the  husband. 
He  was  strengthened  in  this  conviction  by  the 
fact  that  two  fashionable  young  men  in  the  cor- 
ner were  snickering  at  him. 

"Home  again,"  said  Mirabelle,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  "Home  again,  and  time  to  get  to  work. 
And  I'm  just  itching  for  it." 

Mr.  Mix  said  nothing :  he  was  wondering  how 
soon  he  could  get  to  his  private  cache,  and 
whether  he  had  better  put  in  a  supply  of  young 
onions  in  addition  to  cloves  and  coffee  beans. 
He  hadn't  yet  discovered  whether  Mirabelle 
had  a  particularly  keen  scent :  but  he  would  take 
no  chances. 

"Stop  staring  at  those  girls,  Theodore!" 

"I  may  be  married,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  defen- 
sively. "But  I'm  dashed  if  I'm  blind.  .  .  .  Im- 
modest little  hussies.  "We'll  have  to  tackle 
that  question  next,  Mirabelle." 

The  train  eased  to  a  standstill :  he  helped  her 
down  to  the  platform.  The  big  car  was  wait- 
ing for  them :  and  as  the  door  slammed,  Mr.  Mix 


E  0  P  E  275 

sat  back  luxuriously,  and  beamed  at  the  chauf- 
feur. Yes,  virtue  had  its  compensations;  and 
as  soon  as  he  had  money  to  his  own  credit,  he 
would  figuratively  take  Mirabelle  by  the  scruff 
of  the  neck,  and  he  would  tell  her  just  exactly 
how  to  behave,  and  he  would  see  that  she  did 
it.  But  for  the  present — soft  diplomacy. 

Mirabelle  clamped  his  arm.  "Why,  what's 
that  policeman  stopping  us  for,  right  in  the 
middle  of  a  block ! ' ' 

"Search  me.  .  .  .''  He  opened  the  door,  and 
he  leaned  out,  imperially.  "What's  wrong,  of- 
ficer? We  weren't  going  over  twelve  or  thir- 
teen— " 

The  policeman,  who  had  brought  out  a  thick 
book  of  blank  summonses,  and  an  indelible  pen- 
cil, motioned  him  to  desist.  "What  name!" 

Mr.  Mix  swelled,  pompously.  "But,  officer, 
I—" 

"Cut  it  out.    Name?" 

"Theodore  Mix.    But—" 

"Address?" 

Mr.  Mix  gave  it,  but  before  he  could  add  a 
postscript,  Mirabelle  was  on  active  duty.  "Of- 
ficer, we've  got  a  perfect  right  to  know  what  all 


276  E  0  P  E 

this  fol-de-rol  is  about.  I'm  the  president  of  the 
Ethical  Reform  League. ' "  She  flirted  her  badge 
at  him.  "I'm  Mrs.  Theodore  Mix — used  to  be 
Miss  Starkweather.  My  husband  is  a  personal 
friend  of  Mayor  Rowland,  and  the  Chief  of 
Police.  I  demand  to  to  know  the  reason  for 
this  insult!" 

The  policeman  tore  off  a  page  at  the  perfora- 
tion, and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Mix.  "Judge  Bark- 
lay's  Court,  Tuesday,  10  A.  M.  .  .  .  Why, 
you're  violatin'  City  Ordinance  147. " 

Mirabelle  turned  red.  "Now  you  see  here, 
young  man,  I  know  that  ordinance  backwards 
and  forwards !  I — ' ' ' 

"Try  it  sideways,"  said  the  unabashed  po- 
liceman. "Ordinance  says  nobody  can't  en- 
gage in  no  diversion  on  the  Lord's  Day.  That's 
today,  and  this  here  limousine's  a  diversion, 
ain't  it?" 

Mr.  Mix  cried  out  in  anguish,  as  her  grip 
tightened.  "Ouch!  It's  a  damned  outrage! 
Leggo  my  arm." 

"No,  it  isn't!  Oh,  Theodore,  don't  you  see 
what  it  means* — " 


E  0  P  E  277 

"Leggo,  Mirabelle!  It's  a  damned  out- 
rage ! ' ' 

"No,  it  isn't  either!  Theodore,  don't  you 
see?  The  Mayor's  weakened — they  probably 
read  your  speech  at  Chicago — they  aren't  wait- 
ing for  the  amendment !  They're  enforcing  the 
ordinance — better  than  we  ever  dreamed  of! 
And  that  means  that  you're  going  to  the  City 
Hall  next  autumn ! ' '  She  leaned  out  and  bowed 
to  the  gaping  officer.  "We  beg  your  pardon. 
You  did  perfectly  right.  Thank  you  for  doing 
your  duty.  Can  we  go  on,  now  ? ' ' 

The  man  scratched  his  head,   perplexedly. 

"What  are  you  tryin'  to  do — kid  me?  Sure; 
go  ahead.  Show  that  summons  to  anybody  else 
that  stops  you." 

In  the  two  miles  to  the  hill,  they  were  stopped 
seven  times,  and  when  they  arrived  at  the 
house,  Mirabelle  was  almost  hysterical  with 
triumph.  Without  delaying  to  remove  her 
hat,  she  sent  a  telegram  to  the  national  presi- 
dent, and  she  also  telephoned  to  a  few  of  her 
League  cronies,  to  bid  them  to  a  supper  in  cele- 
bration. Mr.  Mix  made  three  separate  essays 


278  E  0  P  E 

to  escape,  but  after  the  third  and  last  trial  was 
made  to  appear  in  its  proper  light  as  a  subter- 
fuge, he  lapsed  into  heavy  infestivity;  and  he 
spent  the  evening  drinking  weak  lemonade,  and 
trying  to  pretend  that  it  belonged  to  the  Col- 
lins family.  And  while  his  wife  (still  wearing 
her  insignia)  and  his  guests  were  talking  in  a 
steady  stream,  Mr.  Mix  was  telling  himself  that 
if  Ordinance  147  was  going  to  prevent  so  inno- 
cent an  occupation  as  riding  in  a  car  on  Sun- 
day, he  was  very  much  afraid  that  life  in  this 
community  was  going  to  be  too  rich  for  his 
blood.  That  is,  unless  he  were  elected  to  be 
chief  of  the  community.  And  in  this  case,  he 
would  see  that  he  wasn't  personally  inconven- 
ienced. 


At  half  past  seven  in  the  morning,  Mirabelle 
was  already  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  semi- 
audibly  rating  Mr.  Mix  for  his  slothfulness, 
when  he  came  in  with  an  odd  knitting  of  his  fore- 
head and  an  unsteady  compression  of  his  mouth. 
To  add  to  the  effect,  he  placed  his  feet  with  stud- 


ROPE  279 

led  clumsiness,  and  as  he  gave  the  Herald  into 
Mirabelle 's  hands,  he  uttered  a  sound  which 
annoyed  her. 

"For  the  cat's  sake,  Theodore,  what  are  you 
groaning  about  T ' ' 

"Groan  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  and  put  a 
trembling  finger  on  the  headline.  As  he  re- 
moved the  finger,  it  automatically  ceased  to 
tremble.  Mr.  Mix  didn't  care  two  cents  for 
what  was  in  the  Herald,  but  he  knew  that 
to  Mirabelle  it  would  be  a  tragedy,  and  that  he 
was  cast  for  the  part  of  chief  mourner. 

"Well,  what's  that  to  groan  about?  I'd  call 
it  a  smashing  victory — just  as  I  did  last  night. 
And  our  being  caught  only  shows — " 

"Rave  on,"  said  Mr.  Mix  lugubriously,  and 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  jingling  his 
keys. 

"Certainly!  It  shows  they  meant  business. 
It  shows  we  did.  We'll  take  our  own  medicine. 
And  the  amendment — "  She  broke  off 
sharply;  her  eyes  had  strayed  back  to  the 
smaller  type.  "Good  grief!"  said  Mirabelle, 
faintly,  and  there  was  silence. 

Mr.  Mix  came  to  look  over  her  shoulder. 


280  K  0  P  E 

LEADING  REFORMERS  ARRESTED 

FOR  VIOLATING  OWN  PET  LAW 
Police  Issue  Over  2800  Summonses  to  Golfers,  Pick- 
nickers,    Canoeists,    Cyclists,   Hikers    and   Motorists 
including  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Theodore  Mix 

MAYOR  PUTS  OVER  UNIQUE  REFERENDUM 
TO  SEE  WHAT  PEOPLE  REALLY  WANT 

Special  Meeting  of  Council  Called  This  Morning 

Entire   City  Roused  to  Fight  Blue-Law-Campaign: 

Mix  Amendment  Doomed:  Ordinance  147  Sure  to  be 

Modified 

Mirabelle  collected  herself.  "What  are  you 
standing  around  gawking  like  that  for?  Find 
out  what  time  that  meeting  is.  Telephone 
every  member  of  the  committee.  They  won't 
have  any  meeting  without  us,  not  by  a  long,  long 
row  of  apple-trees!" 

"Save  your  strength,"  said  Mr.  Mix,  with  a 
spiritual  yawn. 

"Save  my  strength!  Well,  what  about  sav- 
ing my  five  thousand  dollars  for — for  mission- 
ary work!" 


E  0  P  E  281 

"The  missionary  fund,"  said  Mr.  Mix, 
"seems  to  have  fallen  among  cannibals.  Save 
your  energy,  my  dear.  This  isn't  reform;  it's 
elementary  politics,  and  Rowland's  used  the 
steam-roller.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we're 
stronger  than  we  were  before.  If  they  'd  passed 
my  amendment,  a  lot  of  voters  might  have  said 
it  wouldn't  do  any  good  to  elect  me  Mayor; 
when  all  my  best  work  was  done  beforehand. 
Now  I've  got  a  real  platform  to  fight  on.  And 
the  League '11  have  a  real  fund,  won't  it?  You 
put  up  forty  or  fifty  thousand,  and  we'll  stage 
a  Waterloo." 

"Atfd  you  can  stand  there  and — oh,  you 
coward ! ' ' 

He  shook  his  head,  with  new  dignity.  "No, 
you're  simply  lucky  Rowland  didn't  think  of 
it  a  year  ago.  If  he  had,  and — "  Mr.  Mix 
broke  off  the  sentence,  and  turned  pale. 

"What's  the  matter,  Theodore?" 

Mr.  Mix  slumped  down  as  though  hit  from  be- 
hind. "Mirabelle — listen — "  His  voice  was 
strained,  and  hoarse.  "I  may  have  to  have 
some  money  today — four  or  five  thousand — " 

"I  haven't  got  it." 


282  E  0  P  E 

He  stared  at  her  until  she  backed  away  in 
awe.  "You — you  haven't  got — four  or  five 
thousand — ?" 

Mirabelle  began  to  whimper.  "I've  been  so 
sure  of — of  August,  you  know — I've  spent  all 
Mr.  Archer  sent  me.  I — " 

As  he  stepped  forward,  Mirabelle  retreated. 
"You've  got  something  of  your  own,  though?" 
It  wasn't  an  ordinary  question,  it  was  an  agon- 
ized appeal. 

* '  Only  a  separate  trust  fund  John  set  up  for 
me  before  he  died — fifty  thousand  dollars — I 
just  get  the  interest — sixty  dollars  a  week. ' ' 

Mr.  Mix  sat  down  hard,  and  his  breath- 
ing was  laboured.  "Great — Jumping — Jehoso- 
phat!"  He  wet  his  lips,  repeatedly.  "Mira- 
belle— listen — if  they  modify  that  -ordinance — 
so  Sunday  shows  are  legal  again — those  other 
fellows '11  want  to  buy  back — their  contracts — 
from  Henry.  There 's  only  a  few  weeks — but  if 
Henry  only  raised  a  thousand  dollars — he'd  be 
so  close  to  his  ten  thousand — "  He  reached 
for  a  glass  of  water  and  drank  it,  gulping. 
"Henry '11  see  that — he's  got  his  eyes  open 


E  0  P  E  283 

every  minute.  .  .  .  We've  got  to  cut  inside  of 
him.  Prevent  those  fellows  from  buying  their 
Sunday  leases  back.  Get  hold  of  the  man  that's 
the  boss  of  the  Exhibitors'  Association.  Tell 
him  we  '11  buy  a  second  option  to  lease  the  whole 
string  of  theatres  for  six  weeks,  subject  to  our 
getting  a  release  from  Henry.  As-  if  the 
League  wanted  'em  or  something.  Offer  a  big 
enough  rent  so  they'll  have  to  accept — so  they'd 
get  more  out  of  us  than  if  they  opened  up. 
Then  they  can't  buy  back  from  Henry — and 
he 's  over  a  thousand  short.  I  know  he  is.  And 
if  you  don't  do  it — "  His  gesture  was  dra- 
matic. 

Mirabelle  's  expression,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
was  a  pot-pourri  of  sentiments.  "Humph! 
Can't  say  I  like  the  idea  much,  kind-  of  too 
tricky. '  * 

Mr.  Mix  played  his  last  card.  "Don't  the 
ends  justify  the  means  ?  You  and  I  'd  be  philan- 
thropists, and  Henry — "  He  watched  her 
quiver.  "And  with  a  fund  such  as  we'd  have, 
we'd  begin  all  over  again,  and  next  time  we'd 
win,  wouldn't  we?" 


284  E  0  P  E 

'  *  Theodore.  I  've  got  fifty  one  hundred  in  the 
bank.  It  has  to  last  'till  August.  If  you  took 
five  thousand  more — " 

He  snatched  at  the  straw.  "You  bet  I'll  take 
it.  It's  for  insurance.  And  you  telephone  to 
Masonic  Hall  and  see  what's  left  of  the  three 
grand  you  wired  *em  from — " 

"The  what!" 

"The  money  you  sent  from  Chicago.  Get 
what's  left.  Soon  as  I  find  out,  I'll  hustle  down 
town  and  get  busy." 

Mirabelle  wavered.  "The  Council's  going 
to—" 

Mr.  Mix  gave  her  a  look  which  was  a  throw- 
back to  his  cave-man  ancestry.  "To  hell  with 
the  Council!" 

For  an  instant,  her  whole  being  rebelled,  and 
then  she  saw  his  eyes.  "A-all  right,"  she  fal- 
tered. "I— I'll  telephone!" 

Inside  of  five  minutes,  she  told  him  that  of 
her  loan,  there  was  nothing  left  at  all.  The 
money  had  been  wanted  for  the  two-year  rental 
of  a  new  hall,  at  300  Chestnut  Street ;  the  owner 
had  made  a  marked  concession  in  price  for  ad- 
vance payment. 


E  0  P  E  285 

" Never  mind,  then,"  he  rasped.  " That's 
cold  turkey.  .Give  me  a  check  for  every  nickel 
you've  got.  .  .  .  And  I'll  want  the  car  all  day. 
I  want  a  cup  of  coffee.  And  you  wait  right 
here  until  I  get  word  to  you  what  to  do  next." 

11  Couldn't  I  even—" 

"  You  stay  here !  Far's  I  know,  I'll  have  you 
making  the  rounds  of  the  hock-shops  to  cash  in 
your  jewelry.  But — "  He  relaxed  slightly. 
"But  when  it's  for  reform,  my  dear — when  it's 
for  civilization — the  League — isn  't  it  worth  any 
sacrifice  f ' ' 

A  spark  of  the  old  fire  burned'  in  her  eyes. 
"Humph!  Good  thing  one  of  us  has  got  some- 
thing to  sacrifice,  if  anybody  asked  me.  But 
here's  your  coffee.  .  .  .  Don't  make  such  a 
horrid  noise  with  it,  Theodore." 


At  noon,  he  telephoned  her  two  pieces  of 
news.  The  Council,  fairly  swamped  with  hun- 
dreds  of  outraged  voters,  had  promptly  modi- 
fied the  existing  ordinance,  and  rejected — 
unanimously — the  Mix  amendment.  And  Mr. 


286  E  0  P  E 

Mix,  who  had  spent  three  hours  in  conference, 
and  in  battle,  had  emerged  victorious. 

"Thank  Heaven,  we're  safe!  .  .  .  And  it 
only  costs  thirty-nine  hundred.  (Five  of  this 
was  Mr.  Mix's  self -granted  commission.)  I've 
bought  a  second  option  on  every  last  house  in 
town.  And  I'll  need  the  car  all  afternoon. 
I've  got  to  run  all  over  everywhere  and  close 
these  deals.  .  .  .  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Why,"  she  said  with  a  rueful  glance  at  her 
check-book.  "I  guess  I'll  go  down  and  see  how 
soon  I  can  get  that  loan  back.  I'm  not  used  to 
— putting  off  tradesmen's  bills,  Theodore.  I 
wasn't  brought  up  to  it." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NOW  after  prolonged  debate,  and  a  trial  of 
irresistible  force  (which  was  Henry's 
logic)  against  an  immovable  body  (which  was 
Anna's  loyalty),  she  had  finally  consented  to 
run  up  into  the  country  for  a  week's  respite 
from  the  hot  weather.  Before  she  left,  how- 
ever, she  was  first  sworn  to*  secrecy,  and  told 
of  the  discovery  of  the  lurking  -comma,  and  of 
the  plan  for  a  militant  referendum;  she  was 
properly  convulsed,  but  a  little  later,  when  her 
practical  instincts  had  had  a  chance  to  assert 
themselves,  she  inquired  of  Henry  where  there 
was  any  benefit  to  the  Orpheum. 

•'Not  a  bit,'"  he -assured  her  cheerfully. 

"Not  even  in  the  Council — " 

"Dearest,  it  doesn't  -make  the  difference  of 
the  billionth  part  of  a  counterfeit  Russian 
rouble. ' ' 

She  regarded  him  curiously.  "Are  you  as 
cheerful  as  all  that  just  because  you're  getting 

287 


288  ROPE 

back  at  Mr.  Mix  I   And  maybe  spoiling  his  boom 
for  Mayor?" 

Henry  said  that  he  was  all  as  cheerful  as 
that;  yea,  more  so.  He  was  merely  snagging 
the  rope  which  had  already  been  paid  out ;  and 
it  was  glory  in  his  pocket,  because  so  many 
people  before  him  had  found  the  rope  twitched 
out  of  their  hands.  She  thought  that  this  indi- 
cation of  a  vengeful  spirit  was  out  of  place  in 
his  character,  but  she  forgave  it,  because  at 
least  it  was  founded  on  humour.  And  when 
he  took  her  to  the  train,  she  forgave  it  on 
another  score,  because  she  realized  that  not 
since  last  autumn  had  she  seen  him  so  funda- 
mentally boyish  and  irresponsible.  She  was 
glad  that  so  much  of  his  spontaneity  had  come 
back  to  him,  but  at  the  same  time  she  was 
puzzled,  for  it  didn't  seem  altogether  like 
Henry,  as  she  had  analyzed  him,  to  gloat  so 
thoroughly  over  mere  retaliation,  humourous 
or  not. 

On  Monday,  he  met  her  at  the  station,  and  as 
soon  as  she  saw  him,  she  remarked  again  the 
extraordinary  uplift  of  his  mood.  She  had  read 
the  Herald,  and  taken  deep  enjoyment  from 


K  0  P  E  289 

it;  but  Henry  had  a  hundred  unpublished  inci- 
dents to  tell  her, — one  of  them  concerned  his 
own  escape  from  possible  complications  by  clos- 
ing the  Orpheum,  issuing  passes  good  for  the 
following  week;  and  spending  the  day  in  the 
library  of  the  Citizens  Club — and  in  her  amuse- 
ment, and  also  in  her  happiness  to  be  back  with 
him,  she  didn't  notice  that  Henry  was  driving 
her  to  the  Orpheum  instead  of  to  their  apart- 
ment. 

* '  Why,  what  are  we  stopping  here  for,  dear  ? ' ' 

Henry's  laugh  had  a  pronounced  overtone. 
"To  meet  Mr.  Archer.  I  thought  you'd  like 
to  be  in  on  it." 

"In  on  what?"  She  caught  his  arm. 
"Henry!  Has  something  happened  ?  Has  it?" 
She  stared  at  him,  and  as  she  recognized  what 
might  be  hidden  behind  his  expression  of  ex- 
quisite, unreserved  joy,  she  was  almost  as 
frightened  as  if  he  had  looked  despairing  in- 
stead of  joyful. 

"It  wasn't  settled  until  last  week,"  he  said, 
still  with  that  wide,  speculative  smile,  like  a 
baby's.  "It  really  wasn't  settled  until  Satur- 
day. And  it  won't  be  positively  settled  until 


290  K  0  P  E 

we've  seen  Archer.  .  .  .  And  there  he  is  wait- 
ing for  us !  I  couldn  *t  get  him  before — he  was 
in  the  country  for  the  week-end." 


With  no  clear  recollection  of  how  she  got 
there,  she  was  sitting  in  Henry's  tiny  office, 
and  Mr.  Archer  was  sitting  beside  her,  and 
Henry  was  standing  at  his  desk,  pawing  over 
a  heap  of  ledgers  and  cash-books.  To  Anna, 
there  was  something  commanding  in  his  atti- 
tude, something  more  of  crest  than  she  had  ever 
seen  in  him,  even  during  the  early  period  of 
his  intrepid  youth.  And  yet  she  could  see,  too, 
that  his  hands  were  a  trifle  unsteady,  and  that 
his  lips  betrayed  an  immense  excitement. 

"Mr.  Archer,"  he  said.  "There's  no  use 
waiting  until  the  first  of  the  year.  Either 
we've  made  good  by  this  time,  or  we  never  will. 
Here's  the  books.  They'll  show  a  net  profit, 
including  Saturday's  deposit,  of  ten  thousand 
five  hundred. " 

Anna  turned  weak  and  faint,  and  she  wanted 
to  laugh  and  cry  in  the  same  breath,  but  she 


K  0  P  E  291 

gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair,  and  clung  fast 
to  what  was  left  of  her  poise.  If  Henry  had 
a  miracle  to  report,  Anna  must  hear  it. 

1  'It's  a  matter  of  interpretation,"  he  went 
on,  with  his  voice  shaking  for  an  instant. 
"And  you're  the  interpreter.  It  came  up  so 
suddenly  last  week  that  I  couldn't  get  hold  of 
you.  But  I  took  a  chance,  anyway.  .  .  .  Does 
a  lease  count?" 

The  lawyer  looked  very  sober.    "A  lease!" 

"Yes.  If  I  leased  part  of  the  theatre  to 
somebody,  would  the  income  from  that  count?" 

During  the  resultant  silence,  Anna  distinctly 
heard  her  own  heart  beating.  She  looked  at 
Mr.  Archer,  and  saw  that  his  brows  were  drawn 
down,  and  that  his  eyes  were  distant.  Fear- 
fully, she  hung  on  his  reply. 

"That's  a  delicate  question,  Henry.  You 
were  supposed  to  make  your  profit  from  the 
operation  of  the  theatre." 

Henry  was  tense.  "I  don't  mean  if  I  leased 
the  theatre.  I  mean  if  I  leased  some  part  of  it 
— some  part  that  wouldn't  interfere  with  the 
show." 

Anna  closed  her  eyes.    Mr.  Archer's  brows 


292  E  0  P  E 

had  risen  to  normal.  "Why,  in  that  case,  I 
should  certainly  say  that  the  income  would 
count,  Henry.  Let's  see  the  lease?" 

Anna  wished  that  Henry  would  come  over  to 
her,  and  hold  her  in  his  arms  while  Mr.  Archer, 
with  maddening  deliberation,  glanced  through 
the  long  typewritten  document — but  Henry  had 
turned  his  back,  and  was  gazing  out  of  the 
window. 

' '  Peter  McClellan  ?  What 's  he  want  so  much 
space  for  1 ' ' 

Henry  made  no  response.  There  was  a  long 
hiatus,  broken  only  by  the  rustling  of  the  pages. 

"Just  a  minute,  Henry.  Some  of  this  is  all 
right — and  some  isn't.  The  space  you  mention 
is  what  you  're  using  now  for  the — 0r — nursery, 
I  take  it.  And  the  privilege  of  the  lessee  to 
enlarge  the  upper  story  at  his  own  expense  is 
all  right."  His  brows  had  gone  down  again, 
and  Anna  shivered.  "But  even  if  you've  got 
your  whole  rental  in  advance,  you  aren't 
entitled  to  claim  all  of  it  belongs  to  this  year's 
income.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you  actually  earn 
a  twenty-fourth  of  that  whole  payment  every 
month  for  twenty-four  months." 


E  0  P  E  293 

Henry  spoke  over  his  shoulder.  "You 
haven't  read  far  enough." 

' '  Oh ! "  Mr.  Archer  laughed,  but  his  voice  was 
no  lighter.  "Why,  how  on  earth  did  you 
persuade  anybody  to  execute  such  an  agree- 
ment as  that!" 

Henry  faced  around.  "Bob  Stand^sh 
engineered  it.  Told  this  chap  as  long  as  he 
paid  in  advance  anyway,  to  get  a  bargain,  it 
wouldn't  make  any  difference  to  him,  and  it 
made  a  lot  to  me.  Nine  hundred  and  fifty  a 
month  for  July  and  August  and  fifty  a  month 
for  the  next  twenty-two  months. ' ' 

"But  my  dear  boy,  you  still  don't  earn  more 
than  a  twenty  fourth  of  the  whole  rental  each 
month.  That's  ordinary  book-keeping.  I 
should  have  thought  you'd  have  learned  it.  It 
makes  no  difference  when  the  lessee  pays.  All 
you  can  credit  yourself  in  July  and  August 
is—" 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Archer.  There's  a  considera- 
tion. You'll  find  it  on  the  next  page.  I'm  to 
keep  the  theatre  closed  every  afternoon  in  July 
and  August  so  the  lessee  can  make  his  altera- 
tions to  the  second  story.  And  the  extra  price 


294  ROPE 

for  those  months  is  to  pay  me  for  loss  of 
revenue.  So  it  does  count  on  this  year's  in- 
come. Maybe  I'm  no  impresario,  but  by  gosh, 
I  can  keep  a  set  of  books/' 

Mr.  Archer  nodded  briskly.  ''That  is  dif- 
ferent. "Why,  Henry,  as  far  as  I  can  see  .  .  . 
what's  this?  300  Chestnut  Street?  But  the 
Orpheum's  on  Main." 

"300  Chestnut  is  the  back  entrance,"  said 
Henry.  He  smiled  across  at  Anna,  and  she 
stood  up  and  came  a  perilous  step  towards 
him.  "Well,  old  lady,"  said  Henry,  and  the 
same  wide,  foolish  smile  of  utter  joy  was  on 
his  lips.  "I  guess  this  fixes  it.  I — " 

He  was  rudely  interrupted  by  the  violent 
opening  of  the  door.  His  Aunt  Mirabelle 
stood  there,  dynamic,  and  behind  her,  in  a 
great  fluster  of  dismay  and  apprehension, 
stood  the  chairman  of  the  Quarters  Committee 
of  the  Reform  League. 

"Henry!  Henry  Devereux!  You — you 
swindler!"  Her  speech  was  seriously  impeded 
by  her  wrath.  "You — you — you."  She  flung 
a  savage  gesture  towards  the  little  man  in  the 


ROPE  295 

background.  "You  had  an  agent  show  him — 
show  Mr.  McClellan — this  place  through  the 
back  door! — He  didn't  know  I — Henry  Dever- 
eux,  you've  got  my  three  thousand  dollars,  and 
you're  going  to  give  it  straight  back  to  me! 
This  minute!  Do  you  hear?" 

Anna  stared  at  her,  and  at  Henry,  and  sat 
down  plump  and  cried  into  her  handkerchief, 
from  sheer  hysterical  reaction. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Henry.  "Through  the  back 
door,  if  you  say  so.  But  that's  the  regular 
business  entrance.  I  suppose  the  agent  thought 
it  looked  better,  too." 

' '  The  agent !  That  Standish  man !  You  con- 
spired. You — " 

Henry's  chin  went  up.  "Excuse  me,  Aunt 
Mirabelle,  but  I  didn't  know  the  first  thing 
about  it  until  Bob  Standish  told  me  he  had  a 
client  ready  to  close,  and  to  pay  in  advance. 
I  didn't  even  know  your  man  by  sight.  I'd 
have  rented  it  to  anybody  on  earth  on  the  same 
terms." 

The  little  chairman  edged  forward.  "Miss 
Starkweather — Mrs.  Mix — I  knew  how  you  feel 


296  E  0  P  E 

about  motion  pictures,  of  course,  but  how  could 
7  know  you  wouldn't  even  want  to  be  in  the 
same  building  with — " 

"Oh,  dry  up!"  She  whirled  on  the  lawyer. 
"Is  that  fair?  Do  you  call  that  fair?  Do 
you?" 

Mr.  Archer  put  his  hand  on  Henry  'a  shoulder, 
and  nodded  benignly.  "To  tell  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Mix,  I  can't  see  where  this  concerns  you  per- 
sonally at  all.  It's  a  straightforward  commer- 
cial transaction  between  Henry  and  Mr.  Mc- 
Clellan." 

"It  isn't,  either!  Mr.  McClellan  had  author- 
ity from  the  League  to  get  us  a  hall  and  sign 
a  lease  in  his  own  name.  I  had  the  directors 
give  it  to  him,  myself.  And  it  was  my  money 
that  paid  for  it!  Mine!" 

Henry  grinned  at  the  lawyer.  "I  didn't 
know  it  until  last  Saturday.  Bob  told  me  if  I  'd 
make  a  dirt-low  rent  I  could  get  it  in  advance, 
and  up  to  Saturday  I  didn't  even  know  who 
I  was  dickering  with." 

His  aunt  was  menacing.  "Henry  Devereux, 
if  you  try  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  rightful  prop- 


EOPE  297 

erty  by  any  such  flim-flam  as  this,  I  ...  I 
.  .  .  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do!" 

"Oh,  don't,  Aunt  Mirabelle,"  said  Henry 
compassionately.  "You  know  I  won't  be  a 
hog  about  it." 

Some  of  the  fury  went  out  of  her  expression, 
and  Mirabelle  was  on  the  verge  of  sniffling. 
"That's  just  exactly  it.  I  knoiv  you  won't. 
And  the  humiliation  of  it  to  me.  When  you 
know  perfectly  well  if  I'd — " 

She  stopped  there,  with  her  mouth  wide  open. 
They  all  waited,  courteously,  for  her  to  speak, 
but  Mirabelle  was  speechless.  She  was  think- 
ing partly  of  the  past,  and  partly  of  the  future, 
but  chiefly  of  the  present — the  hideous,  unneces- 
sary present  in  which  Mr.  Mix  was  motoring 
serenely  about  the  city,  paying  out  good  money 
to  theatre  managers.  Mirabelle  *s  money,  not 
to  be  replaced.  And  thenj — she  nearly  col- 
lapsed!— the  unspeakable  humiliation  of  re- 
tracting her  pledge  to  the  national  convention. 
Her  pledge  through  Mr.  Mix  of  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars.  How  could  she  ever  offer  an 
excuse  that  would  hold  water?  And  how  could 


298  E  0  P  E 

she  tell  the  truth?  And  to  think  of  Mr.  Mix's 
place  in  the  community  when  it  was  shown — as 
inevitably  it  would  be  shown — that  he  had  acted 
merely  as  a  toy  balloon,  inflated  by  Mirabelle's 
vain  expectations. 

" Humph!"  she  said  at  length,  and  her  voice 
was  a  hoarse,  thin  whisper.  "Well — you  just 
wait)— 'till  I  get  hold  of  him!" 


The  door  had  closed  behind  her:  the  door 
had ,  been  closed  behind  Mr.  Archer,  whose 
kindly  congratulations  had  been  the  more  af- 
fecting because  he  had  learned  to  love  and  re- 
spect the  boy  who  had  won  them:  Henry  and 
his  wife  stood  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes. 
He  took  a  step  forward  and  held  out  his  arms, 
and  she  ran  to  him,  and  held  tightly  to  him, 
and  sobbed  a  little  for  a  postscript. 

He  stroked  her  hair,  gently.  "Well — Archer 
says  it's  going  to  be  about  seven  hundred  thou- 
sand. And  I  deserve  about  thirty  cents.  And 
you're  responsible  for  all  the  rest  of  it.  ... 


E  0  P  E  299 

What  do  you  want  first?  Those  golden  pheas- 
ants, or  humming-birds '  wings  ?' ' 

She  lifted  her  face.  "Both — b-because  I 
won't  have  to  cook  'em.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
I  Ve  1-loved  it,  I  Ve  loved  it,  I  've  loved  working 
and  saving  and  being  poor  with  you  and  every- 
thing— b-but  look  at  my  h-hands,  Henry,  and 
don't  laugh  at  me — but  I'm  going  to  have  a 
cook!  I'm  going  to  have  a  cook!  I'm  going  to 
have  a  cook!" 

He  kissed  her  hands. 

"It's  all  over,  isn't  it?  All  over,  and  we're 
doing  the  shouting.  No  more  wild  men  of 
Borneo,  no  more  dishes  to  wash,  no  more  Or- 
pheum.  Remember  what  Aunt  Mirabelle  said 
a  year  ago?  She  was  dead  right.  Look!  See 
the  writing  on  the  wall,  baby?" 

He  swung  her  towards  the  door !  she  brushed 
away  her  tears,  and  beheld  the  writing.  It  was 
in  large  red  letters,  and  what  it  said  was  very 
brief  and  very  appropriate.  It  said:  EXIT. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  the  living-room  of  an  unfashionable  house 
on  an  unfashionable  street,  Mrs.  Theodore 
Mix  sat  in  stately  importance  at  her  desk,  com- 
posing a  vitriolic  message  to  the  unsympathetic 
world.  As  her  husband  entered,  she  glanced  up 
at  him  with  chronic  disapproval;  she  was  on 
the  point  of  giving  voice  to  it,  not  for  any  spe- 
cific reason  but  on  general  principles,  but  Mr. 
Mix  had  learned  something  from  experience, 
so  his  get-away  was  almost  simultaneous  with 
his  entrance. 

"Mail!"  said  Mr.  Mix,  and  on  the  wing,  he 
dropped  it  on  his  wife's  desk,  and  went  on  out 
of  the  room. 

The  mail  consisted  of  one  letter;  it  contained 
the  check  which  Henry  sent  her  regularly,  on 
the  first  of  each  month. 

She  sat  back  for  a  moment,  and  stared  out 
at  the  unfashionable  street.  Mr.  Mix  was  al- 
ways urging  her  to  live  in  a  better  neighbour- 

300 


ROPE  301 

hood,  but  with  only  her  own  two  hundred  and 
fifty  a  month,  and  four  hundred  more  from 
Henry,  she  could  hardly  afford  it, — certainly 
not  while  she  gave  so  generously  to  the  Eef  orm 
League. 

She  thought  of  the  big  brick  house  on  the 
hill  and  sighed  profoundly.  She  would  have 
made  it  a  national  shrine,  and  Henry — Henry 
was  even  worse  than  his  uncle.  He  kept  it  full 
of  people  who  were  satisfied  to  squander  the 
precious  stuff  of  life  by  enjoying  themselves. 
It  made  her  sick,  simply  to  think  of  Henry. 
People  said  he  and  Bob  Standish  were  the  two 
cleverest  men  that  ever  lived  in  town.  Doubled 
the  Starkweather  business  in  two  years.  Di- 
rectors of  banks.  Directors  of  the  Associated 
Charities  and  trustees  of  the  City  Hospital. 
Humph!  As  if  she  didn't  know  Henry's  capa- 
bilities. Just  flippancy  and  monkey-tricks. 
And  married  to  a  girl  who  was  a  walking  ad- 
vertisement of  exactly  what  every  right-minded 
woman  should  revolt  against.  That  girl  to  be 
the  mother  of  children!  Oh  Lord,  oh  Lord,  if 
Anna  were  a  modern  specimen,  what  would  the 
next  generation  be?" 


302  ROPE 

She  sighed  again,  and  went  back  to  the  lec- 
ture she  was  composing.  "The  Influence  of 
Dress  on  Modern  Society/'  Suddenly,  she 
cocked  her  head  and  sniffed.  She  rose  cau- 
tiously, as  one  who  is  about  to  trail  suspicion. 
She  went  to  the  side-window,  and  peered  out. 
From  a  little  grape-arbor  on  the  lawn,  there 
floated  to  her  the  unmistakable  odour  of  to- 
bacco— yes,  and  she  could  see  a  curling  wisp 
of  smoke. 

"Theodore!" 

A  pause.  "Yes,  dear."  Mr.  Mix's  voice 
had  taken  on,  some  months  ago,  a  permanent 
quality  of  langour;  and  never,  since  the  day 
that  he  was  laughed  out  of  politics,  had  he  re- 
gained his  former  dignity  and  impressiveness. 

"Is  that  you — smoking  again?" 

"Why—" 

"Are  you?    Answer  me." 

"Why— yes,  dear — I — " 

"Come  in  here  this  minute." 

Mr.  Mix  emerged  from  the  arbor.  "Yes, 
dear?" 

She  brandished  her  forefinger  at  him.  "I 
told  you  what  would  happen  next  time  I  caught 


E  0  P  E  303 

you.  Not  one  single  cent  do  you  get  out  of  me 
for  many  a  long  day,  young  man.  .  .  .  Come 
in  here;  I  want  you  to  listen  to  what  I've  writ- 
ten." 

Mr.  Mix's  shoulders  sagged,  but  he  didn't 
stop  to  argue.  "Yes,  dear,"  he  said,  pacifi- 
cally. "I'm  coming." 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGJONALUBRARY FACILITY 


A    000  111  012     1 


<s*<« 


